£• 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


MY   STUDY   FIRE. 


MY  STUDY  FIRE 

UNDER  THE  TREES  AND  ELSEWHERE 

SHORT  STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE 

ESSAYS  IN  LITERARY  INTERPRETATION 

My  STUDY  FIRE,  SECOND  SERIES 

ESSAYS  ON  NATURE  AND  CULTURE 

ESSAYS  ON  BOOKS  AND  CULTURE 

ESSAYS  ON  WORK  AND  CULTURE 

THE  LIFE  OF  THE  SPIRIT 

NORSE  STORIES 

WORKS  AND  DAYS 

THE  GREAT  WORD 

IN  THE  FOREST  OF  ARDEN.    Illustrated 

MY  STUDY  FIRE.     Illustrated 

UNDER  THE  TREES.     Illustrated 

A  CHILD  OF  NATURE.      Illustrated 

NORSE  STORIES.     Illustrated 

IN  ARCADY.     Illustrated 

NATURE  AND  CULTURE.     Illustrated 


MY  STUDY   FIRE  **  BY 
HAMILTON  WRIGHT  MABIE 


NEW  YORK  :  PUBLISHED  BY 
DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 
MDCCCGXIIJ 


Copyright,  1890  and  189S, 
BY  DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY. 
All  rights  reserved. 


JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


PS 

3353 


TO 

J.  T.  M. 


48G 


Contents 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     THE  FIRE  LIGHTED i 

II.  NATURE  AND  CHILDHOOD      ...  I  z 

III.  THE  ANSWER  OF  LIFE     ....  23 

IV.  A  POET'S  CROWN  OF  SORROW  .     .  31 
V.  THE  FAILINGS  OF  GENIUS     ...  42 

VI.   CHRISTMAS  EVE 51 

VII.    NEW  YEAR'S  EVE 62 

VIII.     A  SCHOLAR'S  DREAM 70 

IX.  A  FLAME  OF  DRIFTWOOD     ...  90 

X.     DREAM  WORLDS 96 

XI.  A  TEXT  FROM  SIDNEY     ....  106 

XII.     THE  ARTIST  TALKS 117 

XIII.  ESCAPING  FROM  BONDAGE      .     .     .  125 

XIV.  SOME  OLD  SCHOLARS 132 

XV.     DULL  DAYS 142 

XVI.  THE  UNIVERSAL  BIOGRAPHY.     .     .  149 

XVII.  A  SECRET  OF  GENIUS       .     .     .     .  157 

XVIII.     BOOKS  AND  THINGS 163 

vii 


Contents 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XIX.  A  RARE  NATURE 171 

XX.  THE  CUCKOO  STRIKES' TWELVE    .  177 

XXI.  A  GLIMPSE  OF  SPRING  ....  187 

XXII.  A  PRIMEVAL  MOOD 197 

XXIII.  THE  METHOD  OF  GENIUS  .     .     .  205 

XXIV.  A  HINT  FROM  THE  SEASON     .     .  215 
XXV.  A  BED  OF  EMBERS 224 

XXVI.  A  DAY  OUT  OF  DOORS      .     .     .  235 

XXVII.  BESIDE  THE  Isis 246 

XXVIII.  A  WORD  FOR  IDLENESS      .     .     .  256 

XXIX.  "THE  BLISS  OF  SOLITUDE"   ,     .  263 

XXX.  THE  MYSTERY  OF  ATMOSPHERE    .  270 

XXXI.  A  NEW  HEARTH 278 

XXXII.  AN  IDY-L  OF  WANDERING  .     .     .  287 

XXXIII.  THE  OPEN  WINDOW     ....  297 


My  Study  Fire 

FIRST  SERIES 

Chapter  I 

The  Fire  Lighted 

THE  lighting  of  the  fire  in  my  study 
is  an  event  of  importance  in  the 
calendar  of  the  domestic  year ;  it  marks 
the  close  of  one  season,  and  announces 
the  advent  of  another.  There  is  always 
a  touch  of  pathos  in  the  last  warm 
autumnal  days,  that  makes  the  cordial 
acceptance  of  winter  a  kind  of  infidelity 
to  the  months  that  have  lavished  their 
gifts  of  life  and  beauty  at  our  threshold. 
I  am  quite  willing  to  shiver  at  my  writ 
ing-table  on  sharp  autumnal  mornings 
in  order  that  the  final  act  of  separation 
from  summer  may  be  postponed  a  little. 
This  year  we  have  been  more  than  ever 
reluctant  to  sever  the  last  tie  with  a 


My  Study  Fire 

season  which  has  befriended  us  as  none 
of  its  predecessors  has  ever  done,  and  it 
was  not  until  a  keen  northwester  shook 
the  house  yesterday  that  we  prepared 
the  hearth  for  its  annual  fire.  The  day 
broke  cold  and  gray,  with  an  unmistak 
able  aspect  of  winter  in  the  sky  and 
upon  the  fields ;  the  little  land-locked 
harbour  looked  bleak  and  desolate,  and 
the  wide  expanse  of  water  beyond  was 
dark,  cold,  and  threatening.  I  found 
my  study  cheerless  and  unfamiliar;  it 
was  deserted  by  one  season,  and  the 
next  had  not  yet  taken  possession  of  it. 
It  was  a  barren  day ;  thought  and  feeling 
were  both  congealed,  and  refused  to  flow, 
and  even  the  faithful  pen,  that  has  pa 
tiently  traversed  so  many  sheets  of  blank 
paper,  stumbled  and  halted.  After  a 
fruitless  struggle  with  myself  and  my 
environment,  I  yielded  to  the  general 
depression  and  closed  my  portfolio.  A 
long  walk  brought  me  into  harmony 
with  nature,  and  when  I  returned  I  was 
not  sorry  to  see  that  the  andirons  had 


The  Fire  Lighted 

been  heaped  with  wood  in  my  absence, 
and  all  things  made  ready  for  lighting 
the  fire. 

We  lingered  long  at  the  dinner-table 
that  evening,  and  when  we  left  it  a 
common  impulse  seemed  to  lead  us  into 
the  study.  Rosalind  always  lights  the 
fire,  and  one  of  the  pleasant  impressions 
of  the  annual  ceremonial  is  the  glow  of 
the  first  blaze  upon  her  fair  face  and 
waving  hair.  Two  little  heads  mingled 
their  wealth  of  golden  tresses  at  one  end 
of  the  rug,  intent  upon  the  quick,  mys 
terious  contagion  of  flame  which  never 
fails  to  fill  them  with  wonder;  while  in 
the  background  I  watched  the  picture, 
so  soon  to  take  on  a  new  and  subtle 
beauty,  with  curiously  mixed  regret  and 
anticipation.  I  take  out  my  watch  in 
unconscious  recognition  of  the  impor 
tance  of  an  event  which  marks  the  autum 
nal  equinox  in  the  household  calendar. 
At  the  same  moment  a  little  puff  of 
smoke  announces  that  the  momentous 
act  has  been  performed ;  all  eyes  are 
3 


My  Study  Fire 

fixed  on  the  fireplace,  and  every  swift 
advance  of  flame,  creeping  silently  from 
stick  to  stick  until  the  whole  mass  is 
wrapped  in  fire,  is  noted  with  deepening 
satisfaction.  A  genial  warmth  begins 
to  pervade  the  room,  and  the  soft  glow 
falls  first  on  the  little  group,  and  then 
passes  on  to  touch  the  pictures  and  the 
rows  of  books  with  its  luminous  and 
transfiguring  cheer.  I  am  suddenly 
conscious  that  a  new  spirit  has  taken 
possession  of  the  room,  liberated  no 
doubt  by  the  curling  flames  that  are  now 
singing  among  the  sticks,  and  hinting 
that  it  is  winter,  after  all,  which  forces 
from  summer  her  last  and  rarest  charm, 
her  deepest  and  most  spiritual  truth. 
That  which  has  vanished  to  the  eye 
lives  in  the  thought,  and  takes  on  its 
most  elusive  and  yet  its  most  abiding 
beauty. 

This  first  lighting  of  the  fire  in  my 

study  is,  indeed,  a  brief  transfiguration 

of  life ;  it  discloses  to  me  anew  the  very 

soul   of  nature,  it  reveals   the   thought 

4 


The  Fire  Lighted 

that  runs  through  literature,  it  discovers 
the  heart  of  my  hope  and  aspiration.  I 
catch  in  this  transient  splendour  a  vision 
of  the  deepest  meaning  which  life  and 
art  have  for  me.  The  glow  rests  first 
upon  those  faces,  eagerly  searching  the 
depths  of  the  fire,  that  are  the  very  heart 
of  my  heart ;  it  rests  next  upon  the  books 
in  which  the  thoughts  of  the  great  teachers 
and  the  dreams  of  the  great  artists  remain 
indestructible;  it  steals  last  through 
the  windows,  and,  even  in  the  night, 
seems  to  bathe  the  far-reaching  landscape 
in  a  passing  glory.  Like  the  spirit  which 
Faust  summoned  into  his  study,  it  reveals 
to  me 

A  weaving,  flowing 
Life,  all  glowing. 

After  a  time  the  golden  heads  begin  to 
nod,  and  the  dreams  which  they  have 
seen  in  the  glowing  coals  and  the  dancing 
flames  begin  to  mingle  with  the  dreams 
which  sleep  weaves  with  such  careless, 
audacious  fingers  over  the  unconscious 
hours.  The  good-nights  are  soon  said, 
5 


My  Study  Fire 

and  the  little  feet,  already  overtaken  with 
drowsiness,  make  uncertain  sounds  on 
the  stairs  as  they  take  up  their  journey 
to  slumberland.  Rosalind  returns  in  a 
moment,  and  draws  her  easy-chair  before 
the  fire,  with  some  fragile  apology  for 
occupation  in  her  hands.  The  lamp  has 
not  been  lighted,  and  neither  of  us  seems 
to  note  the  absence  of  its  friendly  flame. 
The  book  that  we  have  been  reading 
aloud  by  turns  lies  unopened,  and  the 
stream  of  talk  that  generally  touches  the 
events  of  the  day  in  little  eddies  and 
then  flows  on  to  deeper  themes  is  lost 
in  a  silence  which  neither  is  willing  to 
break,  because  it  is  so  much  fuller  of 
meaning  than  any  words  could  be.  Like 
the  ancient  river  of  Elis,  thought  flows 
on  underground,  and  is  perhaps  all  the 
deeper  and  sweeter  because  it  does  not 
flash  into  speech. 

For  a  long  time  I  do  nothing  but 
dream,  and  dreams  are  by  no  means  un 
profitable  to  those  whose  waking  hours 
are  given  to  honest  work;  dreams  are 


The  Fire  Lighted 

not  without  meaning,  for  they  are  com 
bined  of  memory  and  prophecy  so  subtly 
that  no  chemistry  of  philosophy  has  yet 
been  able  to  separate  them  into  their 
component  parts.  In  his  dreams  a 
thoughtful  man  sees  both  his  past  and 
his  future  pass  before  him  in  the  order 
of  their  real  sequence ;  there  are  the 
memories,  not  so  much  of  his  acts  as 
of  the  purposes  that  were  behind  them, 
and  there  are  the  aspirations  and  hopes 
with  which  he  unconsciously  fills  the 
years  to  come.  A  bad  man  cannot  face 
an  open  fire  with  comfort,  and  he  must 
be  a  man  of  rare  fidelity  of  purpose  and 
achievement  to  whom  its  searching  light 
does  not  bring  some  revelations  of  him 
self  which  he  would  rather  have  hidden 
under  the  ashes  of  the  past. 

While  I  was  meditating  on  the  moral 
uses  of  a  fire  on  the  hearth,  Rosalind  put 
on  a  fresh  stick,  and  stirred  the  half- 
burned  wood  with  an  energy  that  raised 
a  little  shower  of  sparks.  The  tongues 
of  flame  began  to  circle  about  the  hickory, 
7 


My  Study  Fire 

eager,  apparently,  to  find  the  responsive 
glow  sleeping  in  its  sound  and  reticent 
heart.  I  recalled  the  strip  of  woodland 
from  which  it  was  cut,  and  like  a  vision  I 
saw  once  more  the  summer  skies  and 
heard  the  summer  birds.  The  seasons 
are  so  linked  together  in  the  procession 
of  the  year  that  they  are  never  out  of 
sight  of  each  other.  Even  now,  as  I  step 
to  the  window,  and  look  upon  the  bleak 
landscape  under  the  cold  light  of  the 
wintry  stars,  I  see  just  beyond  the  re 
treating  splendour  of  autumn  ;  I  hear  at 
intervals  the  choirs  of  summer  chanting 
to  the  sun  their  endless  adoration ;  and 
from  the  front  of  the  column,  almost  lost 
to  sight,  come  whiffs  of  that  delicate  fra 
grance  which  escaped  when  spring  broke 
the  alabaster  box  and  poured  out  the 
treasures  of  the  year.  Each  season  has 
lavished  its  wealth  on  me,  and  each  has 
awakened  its  kindred  moods  and  stirred 
its  kindred  thoughts  within  me.  I  am 
conscious,  as  I  look  into  the  bed  of  glow 
ing  coals  to  which  the  fire  has  sunk,  that 


The  Fire  Lighted 

I    am  even  now  undergoing  the  subtle 
process  of  change  from  season  to  season. 
The  habits,  the  moods,  the  impressions, 
which  summer  created  in  me  have  gone, 
and  new  aptitudes,  thoughts,  and  emo 
tions  have  taken  their  place.    The  world 
through    which    I    have   wandered  with 
vagrant  feet  these  past  months,  intent 
only  to  keep  a  heart  open  to  every  voice 
from  field  and  wood  and  sky,  has  sunk 
below  the  horizon,  and  another  and  dif 
ferent  world  has  risen  into  view.     Pan 
pipes  no  more,  while  Orion  blazes  over 
head  and  leads  the  glittering  constella 
tions.     Thought,  that  has  played  truant 
through  the  long  days,  forgetting  books 
and  men  in  its  chase  after  beauty  and  its 
stealthy  ambuscade  of  the  hermit-thrush 
in  the  forest,  returns  once  more  to  brood 
over  the  problems  of  its  own  being,  and 
to  search  for  the  truth  that  lies  at  the 
bottom  of  the  wells  that  men  have  dug 
along  the  route  of  history  for  the  refresh 
ment  of  the  race. 

The  glow  of  the  dying  fire  no  longer 
9 


My  Study  Fire 

reaches  the  windows ;  the  world  beyond 
is  left  undisturbed  to  night  and  darkness ; 
but  it  still  sends  flickering  gleams  along 
the  rows  of  books,  and  lights  up  their 
dusky  titles.  These  are  the  true  com 
panions  of  the  short  wintry  days  and  the 
long  wintry  nights.  To  find  the  life  that 
is  in  them,  to  read  with  clear  eyes  what 
ever  of  truth  they  contain,  to  see  face  to 
face  the  deep  human  experiences  out  of 
which  they  grew  —  these  are  the  tasks  to 
which  the  season  leads  us.  In  summer 
the  senses  wander  abroad,  and  thought 
keeps  company  with  them,  hand  in  hand 
with  nature,  eager  to  see,  to  hear,  and  to 
feel ;  in  winter  the  wanderers  return  to 
the  fire,  to  recall  and  meditate  upon  the 
scenes  in  which  they  have  mingled,  and 
of  which  they  themselves  have  been  a 
part. 

Rosalind  gives  the  fire  another  stirring, 
and  the  last  latent  flame  flashes  up  and 
falls  upon  that  ancient  handbook  of  life 
and  toil,  Hesiod's  "  Works  and  Days." 
How  happily  the  old  Greek  ensnared  the 


10 


The  Fire  Lighted 

year,  with  all  its  hours  and  tasks,  in  that 
well-worn  title !  We,  too,  shall  share 
with  him  the  toils  and  pleasures  of  the 
seasons.  We  have  had  our  Days;  our 
Works  await  us. 


ii 


Chapter  II 

Nature  and  Childhood 

IS  it  not  due  to  November  that  some 
discreet  person  should  revise  what 
the  poets  have  said  about  it  ?  For  one, 
I  have  felt  no  slight  sense  of  shame  as  I 
opened  to  the  melancholy  lines  full  of  the 
wail  of  winds  and  the  sob  of  rain,  while  a 
brilliant  autumnal  light  has  flooded  the 
world.  The  days  have  passed  in  a  stately 
procession,  under  skies  so  cloudless  and 
serene  and  with  such  amplitude  of  golden 
light  that  I  have  sometimes  thought  I 
saw  a  little  disdain  of  the  accessories  of 
the  earlier  season.  It  has  seemed  as  if 
November,  radiant  and  sunlit,  needed  no 
soft,  fleecy  clouds,  no  budding  flowers, 
no  rich  and  rustling  foliage,  to  complete 
her  charm.  Even  the  splendid  tradition 
of  October  has  not  overawed  its  maligned 
successor,  and  of  the  oft-repeated  slan- 

12 


Nature  and  Childhood 

ders  of  the  poets  no  notice  has  been 
taken  save  perhaps  to  cast  a  more  bril 
liant  light  upon  their  graves.  It  is  cer 
tainly  high  time  that  the  traditional 
November  should  give  place  to  the 
actual  November  —  month  of  prolonged 
and  golden  light,  with  just  enough  of 
cloud  and  shadow  to  heighten  by  con 
trast  the  brilliancy  of  the  sunshine.  The 
borderland  between  winter  and  summer 
is  certainly  the  most  beautiful  and  allur 
ing  part  of  the  year.  The  late  spring 
and  the  late  autumn  months  hold  in 
equipoise  the  charms  of  both  seasons. 
Their  characteristics  are  less  pronounced 
and  more  subtle ;  and  they  are  for  that 
reason  richer  in  suggestiveness  and  more 
alluring  to  the  imagination. 

I  have  watched  the  flight  of  the  au 
tumnal  days  from  my  study  windows  as 
one  watches  the  distant  passage  of  the 
birds  southward.  They  have  carried  the 
last  memories  of  summer  with  them,  but 
with  what  grace  and  majesty  they  have 
retreated  before  an  invisible  foe  !  With 
13 


My  Study  Fire 

slow  and  noiseless  step,  pausing  for  days 
together  in  soft,  unbroken  dreams,  they 
have  passed  beyond  the  horizon  line  and 
left  me  under  a  spell  so  deep  that  I  have 
hardly  yet  shaken  it  off  and  turned  to 
other  sights  and  thoughts.  One  of  the 
great  concerns  of  life  is  this  silent,  un 
broken  procession  of  the  seasons,  rising 
from  the  deeps  of  time  like  dreams  sent 
to  touch  our  mortal  life  with  more  than 
mortal  beauty.  Stars,  tides,  flowers,  foli 
age,  birds,  clouds,  snows,  and  storms  — 
how  marvellous  is  the  frame  in  which 
they  appear  and  disappear  about  us ;  as 
real  as  ourselves,  and  yet  as  fleeting  and 
elusive  as  our  dreams  ! 

Rosalind  and  I  have  often  talked 
about  these  things  as  they  appear  to 
children,  and  we  are  agreed  that  nature 
is  a  good  deal  nearer  and  more  intelligible 
to  childhood  than  most  people  think. 
Children  of  sensitive  and  imaginative 
temper  have  marvellous  capacity  for  re 
ceiving  impressions  :  they  absorb  as  un 
consciously  to  themselves  as  to  others. 
14 


Nature  and  Childhood 

When  they  seem  most  indifferent  or  pre 
occupied  they  are  often  most  impression 
able.  Unperceived  by  those  who  are 
nearest  them,  unrecognised  at  the  mo 
ment  by  themselves,  there  often  press 
upon  the  mind  of  a  child  the  deepest 
and  most  awful  mysteries  of  life ;  mys 
teries  that  lie  far  below  the  plummet 
of  thought.  It  is  only  as  one  thinks 
back  and  recalls  out  of  memory  those 
marvellous  moments  when  every  visible 
thing  seemed  suddenly  smitten  with  un 
reality  in  the  presence  of  some  great 
spiritual  truth,  felt  but  uncompre- 
hended,  that  one  realises  the  depth  and 
richness  of  the  unspoken  thoughts  of 
children.  In  a  passage  of  great  beauty 
De  Quincey  has  described  the  feelings 
that  came  when  as  a  boy  he  stood  be 
side  the  form  of  his  dead  sister.  "  There 
lay  the  sweet  childish  figure ;  there  the 
angel  face :  and,  as  people  usually  fancy, 
it  was  said  in  the  house  that  not  one 
feature  had  suffered  any  change.  Had 
they  not  ?  The  forehead,  indeed  —  the 


My  Study  Fire 

serene  and  noble  forehead  —  that  might 
be  the  same ;  but  the  frozen  eyelids,  the 
darkness  that  seemed  to  steal  from  be 
neath  them,  the  marble  lips,  the  stif 
fening  hands,  laid  palm  to  palm,  as  if 
repeating  the  supplications  of  closing 
anguish  —  could  these  be  mistaken  for 
life?  Had  it  been  so,  wherefore  did  I 
not  spring  to  those  heavenly  lips  with 
tears  and  never  ending  kisses  ?  But  so 
it  was  not.  I  stood  checked  for  a  mo 
ment  ;  awe,  not  fear,  fell  upon  me ;  and 
whilst  I  stood,  a  solemn  wind  began  to 
blow  —  the  saddest  that  ear  ever  heard. 
It  was  a  wind  that  might  have  swept  the 
fields  of  mortality  for  a  thousand  cen 
turies.  Many  times  since,  upon  summer 
days,  when  the  sun  is  about  the  hottest, 
I  have  remarked  the  same  wind  arising 
and  uttering  the  same  hollow,  solemn 
Memnonian  but  saintly  swell ;  it  is  in 
this  world  the  one  great  audible  symbol 
of  eternity."  That  wind,  more  real  than 
any  that  ever  blew  over  earthly  fields, 
was  heard  by  no  one  but  the  imaginative 
16 


Nature  and  Childhood 

child  standing,  to  all  appearance,  silent 
and  spellbound  beside  his  sister's  form. 

Not  long  ago  Rosalind  was  looking 
through  Goethe's  "  Autobiography "  to 
recall  what  the  German  boy  of  six  years 
thought  of  the  terrible  earthquake  at 
Lisbon  in  1755,  when  she  happened 
upon  another  very  interesting  and  sig 
nificant  passage  in  child  life.  The  boy 
Goethe  had  heard  much  of  the  discus 
sion  about  religious  matters  which  was 
warm  in  those  days,  and  invaded  even 
the  quiet  and  somewhat  dry  atmosphere 
of  his  father's  house.  He  gave  no  sign, 
but  these  things  sank  into  his  heart, 
and  finally  there  came  to  him  the  great 
thought  that  he  too  might  personally 
approach  the  invisible  God  of  nature. 
"  The  God  who  stands  in  immediate 
connection  with  nature,  and  owns  and 
loves  it  as  his  work,  seemed  to  him  the 
proper  God,  who  might  be  brought  into 
closer  relationship  with  man,  as  with 
everything  else,  and  who  would  take 

care    of  him    as  of  the    motion   of  the 
2  I7 


My  Study  Fire 

stars,  the  days  and  seasons,  the  animals 
and  plants.  The  boy  could  ascribe  no 
form  to  this  Being ;  he  therefore  sought 
him  in  his  works,  and  would,  in  the 
good  Old  Testament  fashion,  build  him 
an  altar."  To  accomplish  this  deep 
and  secret  purpose  he  took  a  lacquered 
music-stand  and  ornamented  it  accord 
ing  to  his  own  idea  of  symbolism.  This 
done,  and  the  fumigating  pastils  arranged, 
the  young  priest  awaited  the  rising  of  the 
sun.  When  the  red  light  lay  bright  along 
the  edges  of  the  roofs,  he  held  a  burn 
ing-glass  above  the  pastils,  ignited  them, 
and  so  obtained  both  the  flame  and  the 
fragrance  necessary  to  his  worship.  Does 
not  this  strange,  secret  act  in  a  child's  life 
parallel  and  explain  some  of  the  earliest 
experiences  of  the  most  primitive  races  ? 
A  beautiful  and  prophetic  story  is 
told  of  William  Henry  Channing  by 
his  latest  biographer.  He  was  a  sin 
gularly  noble  boy ;  graceful  in  fig 
ure,  charming  in  manner,  expressive  in 
countenance,  sensitive,  responsive,  and 
18 


Nature  and  Childhood 

imaginative.  One  night  after  he  had 
fallen  asleep  he  was  suddenly  awakened 
by  a  noise,  and,  looking  out  of  the  win 
dow,  he  saw  a  splendid  star  shining  full 
upon  him.  "  It  fascinated  my  gaze," 
he  writes,  "  till  it  became  like  an  angel's 
eye.  It  seemed  to  burn  in  and  pene 
trate  to  my  inmost  being.  My  little 
heart  beat  fast  and  faster,  till  I  could 
bear  the  intolerable  blaze  no  more. 
And,  hearing  the  steps  of  some  ser 
vant  in  the  passage,  I  sprang  from  my 
crib,  ran  swiftly  to  the  door,  and,  in  my 
long  nightgown,  with  bare,  noiseless  feet, 
followed  down  the  stairway  to  the  lower 
hall.  .  .  .  The  footman  flung  open  the 
drawing-room  door,  and  a  flood  of  light, 
with  a  peal  of  laughter,  burst  forth,  and 
in  the  midst  some  voice  cried  out, 
'What  is  that  in  white  behind  you?' 
The  servant  had,  affrighted,  turned  and 
drawn  aside.  Instantly  from  the  bril 
liant  circle  stepped  forth  my  mother, 
and,  folding  me  in  her  bosom,  said, 
soothingly,  cWhat  troubles  my  boy?' 
19 


My  Study  Fire 

All  I  could  do  was  to  fling  my  arms 
about  her  neck  and  whisper,  '  Oh 
mamma  !  The  star  !  the  star  !  I  could 
not  bear  the  star ! ' 

There  is  a  famous  description  of  a 
kindred  experience  in  one  of  those 
poems  of  Wordsworth's  which  have 
become  part  of  the  memory  of  all  lovers 
of  .nature.  It  was  the  first  poem  I  ever 
heard  Emerson  read,  and  the  strange, 
penetrating  sweetness  of  that  voice,  so 
spiritual  in  its  tone,  so  full  of  interpre 
tation  in  its  accent,  is  for  me  part  of  the 
verse  itself: 

There  was  a  Boy  ;  ye  knew  him  well,  ye  cliffs 
And  islands  of  Winander!  —  many  a  time 
At  evening,  when  the  earliest  stars  began 
To  move  along  the  edges  of  the  hills, 
Rising  or  setting,  would  he  stand  alone, 
Beneath  the  trees  or  by  the  glimmering  lake  ; 
And  there,  with  fingers  interwoven,  both  hands 
Pressed  closely  palm  to  palm  and  to  his  mouth 
Uplifted,  he,  as  through  an  instrument, 
Blew  mimic  hootings  to  the  silent  owls, 
That  they  might  answer  him.     And  they  would 
shout 

20 


Nature  and  Childhood 

Across  the  watery  vale,  and  shout  again, 

Responsive  to  his  call,  with  quivering  peals, 

And  long  halloos,  and  screams,  and  echoes  loud, 

Redoubled  and  redoubled  ;   concourse  wild 

Of  mirth  and  jocund  din  !     And,  when  it  chanced 

That  pauses  of  deep  silence  mocked  his  skill, 

Then,  sometimes,  in  that  silence,  while  he  hung 

Listening,  a  gentle  shock  of  mild  surprise 

Has  carried  far  into  his  heart  the  voice 

Of  mountain  torrents  ;  or  the  visible  scene 

Would  enter  unawares  into  his  mind 

With  all  its  solemn  imagery,  its  rocks, 

Its  woods,  and  that  uncertain  heaven  received 

Into  the  bosom  of  the  steady  lake. 

The  wonderful  experience,  described 
in  these  lines  with  the  inimitable  sim 
plicity  of  nature  itself,  marks  an  epoch 
in  a  child's  life  ;  it  is  as  if  a  door  were 
suddenly  left  ajar  into  some  world  un 
seen  before.  "  Never  shall  I  forget  that 
inward  occurrence,  till  now  narrated  to 
no  mortal,"  says  Richter,  "  wherein  I 
witnessed  the  birth  of  my  self-conscious 
ness,  of  which  I  can  still  give  the  time 
and  place.  One  forenoon  I  was  stand 
ing,  a  very  young  child,  in  the  outer 

21 


My  Study  Fire 

door,  and  looking  leftward  at  the  stack 
of  the  fuel-wood,  when  all  at  once  the 
internal  vision,  f  I  am  a  me '  (Ich  bin  em 
Ich}y  came  like  a  flash  from  heaven 
before  me,  and  in  gleaming  light  ever 
afterward  continued."  The  incommuni 
cable  world  of  childhood,  through  which 
we  have  all  walked,  but  which  lies  hidden 
from  us  now  by  a  golden  mist  —  was  it 
not  the  poetic  prelude  of  life,  wherein  the 
deepest  things  were  seen  at  times  in  clear 
vision,  and  the  sublimest  mysteries  ap 
pealed  to  us  with  a  strange  familiarity  ! 
To  imaginative  childhood,  is  not  the 
cycle  of  the  changing  seasons  what  it 
was  to  the  German  boy  in  the  narrow 
and  straitened  country  parsonage,  an 
idyl-year  ?  And  is  there  not  for  every 
child  of  kindred  soul  "  an  idyl-kingdom 
and  pastoral  world  in  a  little  hamlet  and 
parsonage  "  ? 


22 


Chapter  III 

The  Answer  of  Life 

THE  short  December  afternoon  was 
already  fading  in  a  clear  white  light 
on  the  low  hills,  and  the  shadows  were 
creeping  stealthily  from  point  to  point, 
alert  to  seize  every  advantage  and  follow 
the  retreating  steps  of  day  without  break 
or  pause.  It  was  that  most  delightful 
of  all  hours,  when  work  is  done  and  the 
active  enjoyment  or  companionship  of 
the  evening  has  not  begun.  Rosalind 
had  come  in  from  a  long  walk  with  a 
charming  air  of  vigour  and  vitality,  which 
seemed  to  impart  itself  to  the  whole 
room.  She  gave  the  fire  an  energetic 
stirring,  which  brought  its  glow  to  a 
focus  and  kindled  its  latent  flame  into 
a  sudden  and  fiery  splendour.  Then  she 
drew  up  a  low  ottoman,  and  sat  down  to 
enjoy  the  cheer  and  warmth  which  she 
23 


My  Study  Fire 

had  evoked.  It  was  not  the  first  time 
that  something  which  had  smouldered 
in  my  hands  had  caught  life  and  beauty 
in  hers.  I  was  in  a  sombre  mood.  I 
had  spent  the  morning,  and,  for  that 
matter,  a  good  many  mornings,  re-read 
ing  the  Greek  plays,  and  striving  by  a 
patient  and  persistent  use  of  the  imagi 
nation  to  possess  myself  of  the  secret 
of  those  masterly  and  immortal  crea 
tions.  To  me  they  had  long  ceased  to 
be  dead,  and  to-day  especially  they  were 
more  vital  and  palpable  than  anything 
that  I  saw  in  the  world  around  me.  I 
had  finished  again  that  splendid  trilogy 
in  which  ^Eschylus  unfolds  the  doom  of 
the  house  of  Atreus.  I  had  seen  the 
flashing  fires  which  lighted  Agamemnon 
home  to  his  death  ;  I  had  heard  Cassan 
dra's  awful  monody ;  I  had  heard,  too, 
that  appalling  cry  which  seemed  to  run 
through  the  world  like  the  shudder  of  a 
doomed  soul  when  the  great  leader  fell 
in  his  own  palace ;  I  had  witnessed  the 
vengeance  of  the  offended  gods  through 
24 


The  Answer  of  Life 

the  hands  of  Orestes ;  and  I  had 
followed  the  Fury-haunted  steps  of  the 
unwilling  executioner  of  the  eternal  law 
from  the  temple  at  Delphi  to  the  judg 
ment  seat  at  Athens.  All  these  things 
were  still  in  my  memory,  and  the  room 
had  caught  a  solemn  and  awful  quietude 
in  the  overshadowing  presence  of  these 
vast  and  terrible  representations  of  an 
tique  life. 

Rosalind's  coming  broke  the  spell  of 
memories  that  pressed  too  heavily  on 
heart  and  mind ;  she  seemed  to  reunite 
me  with  the  movement  of  present  life, 
and  to  lead  me  out  of  the  subterranean 
depths  where  the  springs  of  the  great 
drama  of  history  are  concealed,  to  the 
sunlight  and  bloom  of  the  upper  world. 
In  her  I  suddenly  found  the  key  to  the 
mystery  which  I  had  sought  in  vain  to 
solve  by  process  of  thought,  for  in  her  I 
saw  the  harmony  of  law  with  beauty  and 
joy,  the  rounded  circle  of  right  action, 
and  a  temperament  akin  with  light  and 
song  and  the  sweetness  of  nature. 
25 


My  Study  Fire 

"  You  are  thinkng,"  she  said  at  last, 
as  she  turned  toward  me,  as  if  to  carry 
further  a  line  of  thought  which  she 
seized  by  the  mingled  intuition  of  long 
affection  and  intimate  fellowship — "you 
are  thinking  that  —  " 

"  I  was  thinking  that  you  are  often  a 
better  answer  to  my  questions  than  I  can 
ever  hope  to  frame  for  myself.  I  was 
thinking  that  the  deepest  mysteries  of 
life  are  explained,  and  the  deepest  prob- 
lems  of  life  are  solved,  not  by  thinking 
but  by  living.  When  I  see  a  man  who 
has  broken  a  fundamental  law,  and  by 
patience,  penitence,  and  labour  has  re 
gained  the  harmony  which  he  lost,  I  no 
longer  sorrow  that  .ZEschylus's  f  Prome 
theus  Bound  '  is  a  fragment.  I  see  before 
me  in  actual  realisation  the  solution  which 
the  dramatist  undoubtedly  presented  in 
the  two  plays  of  the  Trilogy  which  are 
lost.  Genius  can  do  much,  but  even 
genius  falls  short  of  the  actuality  of  a 
single  human  life.  I  have  been  among 
my  books  all  day,  and  they  have  con- 
26 


The  Answer  of  Life 

fused  and  overpowered  me  with  doubts 
and  questions  which  start  in  books  but 
are  rarely  answered  there  ;  you  have  come 
in,  fresh,  buoyant,  and  full  of  hope,  from 
contact  with  life,  where  these  questions 
find  their  answers  if  we  are  only  willing 
to  keep  an  open  mind  and  heart." 

"  But  don't  you  think,"  Rosalind  in 
terrupted,  "  that  the  problems  of  living 
are  more  dramatically  and  clearly  stated 
in  books  than  in  the  lives  of  the  men  and 
women  we  know  in  this  village  ? " 

"Yes,"  I  said,  holding  a  newspaper 
before  my  face  to  shield  it  from  the  glow 
of  the  ambitious  fire ;  "  yes,  more  dra 
matically  stated,  because  all  the  irrelevant 
details  are  omitted.  There  is  the  mate 
rial  for  a  drama  in  the  career  of  almost 
every  person  whom  we  know,  but  the 
movement  is  overlaid  and  concealed  by 
all  kinds  of  trivial  matter.  A  dramatist 
would  seize  the  dramatic  movement  and 
bring  it  into  clear  view  by  casting  all  this 
aside.  He  would  disentangle  the  thread 
from  the  confused  web  into  which  every 
27 


My  Study  Fire 

life  runs  to  a  casual  observer.  The  prob 
lems  are  more  clearly  stated  in  books 
than  in  life,  but  they  are  not  so  clearly 
answered." 

Here  the  children  rushed  in  with  some 
request,  which  they  whispered  in  solemn 
secrecy  to  their  common  confidant,  and 
then,  receiving  the  answer  they  hoped 
for,  rushed  out  again.  It  was  a  detached 
segment  of  life  which  they  brought  in 
and  took  out  of  the  study  in  such  eager 
haste.  I  knew  neither  the  cause  of  the 
glow  on  their  cheeks,  nor  of  the  light  in 
their  eyes,  nor  of  the  deep  mystery  which 
surrounded  them  as  with  an  atmosphere. 

"  There  is  more  to  be  learned  from 
those  children  concerning  the  mysteries 
of  life,"  I  said,  after  they  had  gone, 
"  than  from  any  book  which  it  has  ever 
been  my  fortune  to  happen  upon.  The 
mysteries  which  perplex  me  are  not  so 
much  in  the  appearance  of  things,  and  in 
their  definite  relations,  as  in  the  processes 
through  which  we  are  all  passing.  I 
have  always  had  a  secret  sympathy  with 
28 


The  Answer  of  Life 

those  old  Oriental  religions  which  deified 
the  processes  of  nature  —  the  births  and 
deaths  and  growth  of  things.  The  festi 
vals  which  greeted  the  return  of  spring, 
with  overflowing  life  in  its  train,  and  the 
sad  processionals  which  lamented  the 
departure  of  summer  and  the  incoming 
of  death,  had  a  large  element  of  reality 
in  them.  They  appeal  to  me  more  than 
the  worship  of  the  serene  gods  whose 
faces  and  forms  are  so  perfectly  defined 
in  art. 

"  I  do  not  believe,"  I  added,  laying 
down  the  newspaper  and  stirring  the  fire 
for  the  sake  of  the  glow  on  the  deepen 
ing  shadows  in  the  room  — "  I  do  not 
believe  that  the  deeper  problems  of  liv 
ing  ever  can  be  answered  by  the  processes 
of  thought.  I  believe  that  life  itself 
teaches  us  either  patience  with  regard  to 
them,  or  reveals  to  us  possible  solutions 
when  our  hearts  are  pressed  close  against 
duties  and  sorrows  and  experiences  of  all 
kinds.  I  believe  that  in  the  thought  and 
feelings  and  sufferings  of  children,  for 
29 


My  Study  Fire 

instance,  an  observer  will  often  catch,  as 
in  a  flash  of  revelation,  some  fruitful  sug 
gestion  of  his  own  relation  to  the  uni 
verse,  some  far-reaching  analogy  of  the 
processes  of  his  own  growth.  This  wis 
dom  of  experience,  which  often  ripens 
even  in  untrained  minds  into  a  kind  of 
clairvoyant  vision,  is  the  deepest  wisdom 
after  all,  and  books  are  only  valuable  and 
enduring  as  they  include  and  express  it." 
I  was  just  about  to  illustrate  by  say 
ing  that  for  this  reason  "  The  Imitation 
of  Christ"  has  survived  all  the  great 
volumes  of  learning  and  philosophy  of 
its  age,  when  the  bell  rang,  and  a  visitor 
robbed  me  of  my  audience. 


Chapter  IV 

A  Poet's  Crown  of  Sorrow 

SITTING  here  at  my  writing-table 
loaded  with  magazines,  reviews, 
and  recent  books,  the  fire  burning  cheer 
ily  on  the  hearth,  Rosalind  meditatively 
plying  her  needle,  and  wind  and  rain 
without  increasing  by  contrast  the  inner 
warmth  and  brightness,  it  is  not  easy  to 
realise  the  pathos  of  life  as  one  reads  it 
in  poetry,  nor  to  enter  into  its  mystery 
of  suffering  as  it  has  pressed  heavily 
upon  some  of  the  greatest  poets.  The 
fountains  of  joy  and  sorrow  are  for  the 
most  part  locked  up  in  ourselves,  but 
there  are  always  those  against  whom,  by 
some  mysterious  conjunction  of  the  stars, 
calamity  and  disaster  are  written  in  a 
lifelong  sentence.  It  is  the  lot  of  all 
superior  natures  to  suffer  as  a  part  of 
their  training  and  as  the  price  of  their 
31 


My  Study  Fire 

gifts ;  but  this  suffering  has  often  no 
thorn  of  outward  loss  thrust  into  its  sen 
sitive  heart.  There  are  those,  however, 
on  whose  careers  shadows  from  within 
and  from  without  meet  in  a  common 
darkness  and  complete  that  slow  anguish 
of  soul  by  which  a  personal  agony  is 
sometimes  transmuted  into  a  universal 
consolation  and  strength.  The  anguish 
of  the  cross  has  always  been  the  prelude 
to  the  psalms  of  deliverance,  and  the 
world  has  made  no  new  conquest  of 
truth  and  life  except  through  those  who 
have  trodden  the  via  dolorosa. 

I  am  quite  sure  that  these  thoughts 
are  in  the  mind,  or  rather  in  the  heart, 
of  Rosalind,  for  she  drops  her  work  at 
intervals  and  looks  into  the  fire  with  the 
intentness  of  gaze  of  one  who  sees  some 
thing  which  she  does  not  understand.  I 
am  not  blind  to  the  vision  which  lies 
before  her  and  fills  her  with  doubt  and 
uncertainty.  It  is  the  little  town  of 
Tous  which  the  fire  pictures  before  her, 
its  white  roofs  glistening  in  the  light  of 
32 


A  Poet's  Crown  of  Sorrow 

the  Persian  summer  day.  But  it  is  not 
the  beauty  of  the  Oriental  city  which 
holds  her  gaze,  it  is  the  funeral  train  of 
a  dead  poet  passing  through  the  western 
gate  while  the  reward  of  his  immortal 
work,  long  withheld  by  an  ignoble  king, 
is  borne  into  the  deserted  streets  by  the 
slow-moving  camels.  Surely  the  irony 
of  what  men  call  destiny  was  never  more 
strikingly  illustrated  than  in  the  story  of 
Firdousi,  the  great  epic  poet  who  sang 
for  Persia  as  Homer  sang  for  Greece. 
Rosalind,  who  always  wants  to  know  a 
man  of  genius  on  the  side  of  his  misfor 
tunes  or  his  heart  history,  began  the 
evening  by  reading  aloud  Mr.  Gosse's 
picturesque  "  Firdousi  in  Exile,"  a  poem 
of  pleasant  descriptive  quality,  but  lack 
ing  that  undertone  of  pathos  which  the 
story  ought  to  have  carried  with  it. 
Such  a  story  puts  one  in  a  silent  mood, 
and  in  the  lull  of  conversation  I  have 
read  to  myself  Mr.  Arnold's  fine  render 
ing  of  the  famous  episode  of  "  Sohrab 
and  Rustem "  from  the  "  Epic  of 
3  33 


My  Study  Fire 

Kings  ;  "  a  noble  piece  of  English  blank 
verse,  from  which  I  cannot  forbear  quot 
ing  a  well-known  passage,  so  full  of  deep, 
quiet  beauty  is  it : 

But  the  majestic  river  floated  on, 

Out  of  the  mist  and  hum  of  that  low  land, 

Into  the  frosty  starlight,  and  there  moved, 

Rejoicing,  through  the  hush'd  Chorasmian  waste, 

Under  the  solitary  moon  ;  he  flow'd 

Right  for  the  polar  star,  past  Orgunje, 

Brimming,  and  bright,  and  large  ;  then  sands  begin 

To  hem  his  watery  march,  and  dam  his  streams, 

And  split  his  currents ;  that  for  many  a  league 

The  shorn  and  parcell'd  Oxus  strains  along 

Through  beds  of  sand  and  matted  rushy  isles  — 

Oxus,  forgetting  the  bright  speed  he  had 

In  his  high  mountain  cradle  in  Pamere, 

A  foil'd  circuitous  wanderer  —  till  at  last 

The  long'd-for  dash  of  waves  is  heard,  and  wide 

His  luminous  home  of  waters  opens,  bright 

And  tranquil,   from  whose  floor  the  new-bathed 

stars 
Emerge,  and  shine  upon  the  Aral  Sea. 

Not  unlike  the  movement  of  the  Oxus 
was  the  life  of  the  poet  whose  song  has 
touched  it  with  a  beauty  not  its  own ;  a 
34 


A  Poet's  Crown  of  Sorrow 

life  fretted  by  jealousies,  broken  by  stupid 
treachery,  but  sweeping  onward,  true  to 
its  star,  and  finding  peace  at  last  in  that 
fathomless  sea  to  which  all  life  is  tribu 
tary.  The  pathos  of  such  life  lies  not 
so  much  in  individual  suffering  as  in 
the  contrast  between  the  service  rendered 
and  the  recognition  accorded  to  it.  The 
poet  had  immortalised  his  country  and 
his  master,  and  his  reward  after  thirty 
years  of  toil  was  a  long  exile. 

In  vain  through  sixty  thousand  verses  clear 

He  sang  of  feuds  and  battles,  friend  and  foe, 
Of  the  frail  heart  of  Kaous,  spent  with  fear, 

And  Kal  Khosrau  who  vanished  in  the  snow, 
And  white-haired  Zal  who  won  the  secret  love 

Of  Rudabeh  where  water-lilies  blow, 
And  lordliest  Rustem,  armed  by  gods  above 

With  every  power  and  virtue  mortals  know. 

For  this  inestimable  service  of  holding 
aloft  over  Persian  history  the  torch  of 
the  imagination  until  it  lay  clear  and 
luminous  in  the  sight  of  the  centuries, 
Firdousi  was  condemned  to  learn  the 
bitterness  of  wide  and  restless  wander- 
35 


My  Study  Fire 

ings.  Many  a  Tartar  camp  knew  him  ; 
Herat,  the  mountains  about  the  Caspian, 
Astrabad,  the  Tigris,  and  Bagdad  saw 
the  white-haired  poet  pass,  or  accorded 
him  a  brief  and  broken  rest  from  jour 
neying.  There  is  an  atmosphere  of 
poetry  about  these  ancient  names,  but 
no  association  is  likely  to  linger  longer 
in  the  memory  of  men  than  the  fact  that 
they  were  stations  in  Firdousi's  exile. 
It  is  one  of  the  unconscious  gifts  of 
genius  that  it  bestows  immortality  upon 
all  who  come  into  relation  with  it.  But 
the  crowning  touch  of  pathos  came  at 
the  close,  when  the  long  withheld  treasure 
entered  the  gates  of  Tous  as  the  body 
of  the  poet  was  borne  out  of  the  city 
to  its  last  repose.  The  repentance  of 
Mahmoud  had  come  too  late;  he  had 
blindly  thrust  aside  the  richest  crown 
of  good  fame  ever  offered  to  a  Persian 
king. 

But  there  are  sadder  stories  than  that 
of  Firdousi ;  one  story,  notably,  which  all 
men  recall  instinctively  when  they  speak 
36 


A  Poet's  Crown  of  Sorrow 

of  exile.  The  Persian  poet  had  written 
the  "  Epic  of  Kings "  in  a  palace,  and 
with  the  resources  of  a  king  at  com 
mand,  but  Dante  was  a  homeless  wan 
derer  in  the  years  which  saw  the  birth 
of  the  Divine  Comedy.  To  that  great 
song  in  which  the  heart  of  Mediae valism 
was  to  live  forever,  Florence  contrib 
uted  nothing  but  the  anguish  of  soul 
through  which  the  mind  slowly  finds 
its  way  to  the  highest  truth.  A  noble 
nature,  full  of  deep  convictions,  fervent 
loves,  with  the  sensitiveness  and  pro 
phetic  sight  of  genius,  cut  off  from  all 
natural  channels  of  growth,  activity,  and 
ambition,  condemned  to 

....  prove  how  salt  a  savour  hath 
The  bread  of  others,  and  how  hard  a  path 
To  climb  and  to  descend  the  stranger's  stairs. 

Surely  no  great  man  ever  ate  his  bread 
wet  with  tears  of  deeper  bitterness  than 
Dante.  One  has  but  to  recall  his  stern 
love  of  truth  and  his  intense  sensitive 
ness  to  injustice,  to  imagine  in  some 
37 


My  Study  Fire 

degree  what  fathomless  depths  of  suffer 
ing  lay  hidden  from  the  eyes  of  men 
under  that  calm,  majestic  composure  of 
manner  and  speech.  The  familiar  story 
of  his  encounter  with  the  Florentine 
blacksmith  comes  to  mind  as  indicating 
how  his  proud  spirit  resented  the  slight 
est  injustice.  One  morning,  as  the 
blacksmith  was  singing  snatches  from 
the  song  of  the  new  poet,  Dante  passed 
by,  listened  a  moment,  and  then,  in  a 
sudden  passion,  strode  into  the  shop  and 
began  throwing  the  implements  which  the 
smith  had  about  him  into  the  street. 

"  What  are  you  doing  ?  Are  you 
mad  ? "  cried  the  blacksmith,  so  over 
come  with  astonishment  that  he  made 
no  effort  to  protect  his  property. 

"And  what  are  you  doing?"  replied 
the  poet,  fast  emptying  the  shop  of  its 
tools. 

"  I  am  working  at  my  proper  business, 
and  you  are  spoiling  my  work." 

"  If  you  do  not  wish  me  to  spoil  your 
things,  do  not  spoil  mine." 
38 


A  Poet's  Crown  of  Sorrow 

"What  thing  of  yours  am  I 
spoiling? " 

"You  are  singing  something  of  mine, 
but  not  as  I  wrote  it.  I  have  no  other 
trade  but  this,  and  you  spoil  it  for  me." 

The  poet  departed  as  abruptly  as  he 
came.  He  had  satisfied  the  sense  of 
injustice  done  him  by  swift  punishment ; 
and  it  does  not  surprise  us  to  be  told 
by  Sacchetti  that  the  blacksmith,  having 
collected  his  scattered  tools  and  returned 
to  his  work,  henceforth  sang  other  songs. 
This  simple  incident  discloses  that  sen 
sitiveness  to  injustice  which  made  the 
banishment  of  Dante  one  long  torture 
of  soul.  They  utterly  mistake  the 
nature  of  greatness  who  imagine  that 
the  bitterest  sorrow  of  such  experiences 
as  those  of  Firdousi  and  Dante  lies  in 
loss  of  those  things  which  most  men 
value;  the  sharpest  thorn  in  such  crowns 
is  the  sense  of  ingratitude  and  injustice, 
the  consciousness  of  the  possession  of 
great  gifts  rejected  and  cast  aside.  There 
is  nothing  more  tragic  in  all  the  range 
39 


My  Study  Fire 

of  life  than  the  fate  of  those  who,  like 
Jeremiah,  Cassandra,  and  Tiresias,  are 
condemned  to  see  the  truth,  to  speak  it, 
and  to  be  rebuked  and  rejected  by  the 
men  about  them.  Could  anything  be 
more  agonising  than  to  see  clearly  an 
approaching  danger,  to  point  it  out,  and 
be  thrust  aside  with  laughter  or  curses, 
and  then  to  watch,  helpless  and  solitary, 
the  awful  and  implacable  approach  of 
doom?  In  some  degree  this  lot  is 
shared  by  every  poet,  and  to  the  end  of 
time  every  poet  will  find  such  a  sorrow 
a  part  of  his  birthright. 

"  After  all,"  said  Rosalind,  suddenly 
breaking  the  silence  of  thought  that  has 
evidently  travelled  along  the  same  path 
as  my  own  —  "  after  all,  I  'm  not  sure 
that  they  are  to  be  pitied." 

"  Pity  is  the  last  word  I  should  think 
of  in  connection  with  them ;  it  is  only  a 
confusion  of  ideas  which  makes  us  even 
feel  like  pitying  them.  The  real  business 
of  life,  as  Carlyle  tried  so  hard  to  make 
us  believe,  is  to  find  the  truth  and  to  live 
40 


A  Poet's  Crown  of  Sorrow 

by  it.  If,  in  the  doing  of  this,  what 
men  call  happiness  falls  to  our  lot,  well 
and  good;  but  it  must  be  as  an  incident, 
not  as  an  end.  There  come  to  great, 
solitary,  and  sorely  smitten  souls  mo 
ments  of  clear  sight,  of  assurance  of  vic 
tory,  of  unspeakable  fellowship  with  truth 
and  life  and  God,  which  outweigh  years 
of  sorrow  and  bitterness.  Firdousi  knew 
that  he  had  left  Persia  a  priceless  posses 
sion,  and  the  Purgatorio  of  Dante  was 
not  too  much  to  pay  for  the  Paradiso," 

"And  yet,"  said  Rosalind  slowly, 
looking  into  the  fire,  and  thinking,  per 
haps,  of  the  children  asleep  with  happy 
dreams,  and  all  the  sweet  peace  of  the 
home  — "  and  yet  how  much  they 
lose  ! " 


Chapter  V 

The  Failings  of  Genius 

THE  study  fire  burns  for  the  most 
part  in  a  quiet,  meditative  way 
that  falls  in  with  the  thought  and  the  talk 
that  are  inspired  by  it.  Occasionally, 
however,  it  crackles  and  snaps  in  an 
argumentative  mood  that  makes  one 
wonder  what  sort  of  communication  it  is 
trying  to  have  with  the  world  around  it. 
Is  it  the  indignant  protest  of  some  dis 
membered  tree  ruthlessly  cut  down  in 
the  morning  of  life,  that  energetically  but 
ineffectually  sputters  itself  forth  in  the 
glowing  heat  ?  Perhaps  if  Gilbert  White, 
or  Thoreau,  or  Burroughs  happened  to 
fill  my  easy-chair  at  such  a  moment,  this 
question  might  be  answered ;  I,  in  my 
ignorance,  can  only  ask  it.  Of  one  thing 
I  am  certain,  however :  that  when  the  fire 
falls  into  this  humour  it  is  quite  likely  to 
42 


The  Failings  of  Genius 

take  Rosalind  and  myself  with  it;  on 
such  occasions  the  quiet  talk  of  the  long, 
uninterrupted  reading  gives  place  to  a 
discussion  which  is  likely  to  be  prolonged 
until  the  back-log  falls  in  two  and  the 
ashes  lie  white  and  powdery  around  the 
expiring  embers.  Even  then  the  pretty 
bellows  which  came  several  Christmases 
ago  from  one  whose  charm  makes  it  im 
possible  to  use  the  word  common  even 
to  describe  her  friendship  for  Rosalind 
and  myself,  are  vigorously  used  to  give 
both  fire  and  talk  a  few  minutes'  grace. 

It  is  generally  concerning  some  fact  or 
event  which  disturbs  Rosalind's  idealisa 
tion  of  life  that  these  discussions  rise  and 
flourish.  This  charming  woman  persists, 
for  instance,  in  declining  to  take  any  ac 
count  of  traits  and  characteristics  in  emi 
nent  men  of  letters  which  impair  the 
symmetry  of  the  ideal  literary  life ;  with 
delightful  feminine  insistence,  she  will 
have  her  literary  man  a  picturesque  ideal, 
or  else  will  not  have  him  at  all.  For 
myself,  on  the  other  hand,  I  am  rather 
43 


My  Study  Fire 

attracted  than  repelled  by  the  fallings  of 
great  men ;  in  their  human  limitations, 
their  prejudices,  their  various  deflections 
from  the  line  of  perfect  living,  I  find  the 
ties  that  link  them  to  myself  and  to  a 
humanity  whose  perfection  is  not  only  a 
vague  dream  of  the  future,  but  actually 
and  for  the  deepest  reasons  impossible. 
The  faults  of  men  of  genius  have  been 
emphasised,  misrepresented,  and  exag 
gerated  in  a  way  that  makes  most  writing 
about  such  men  of  no  value  to  those  who 
care  for  truth.  The  men  are  few  in  every 
age  who  can  honestly  and  intelligently 
enter  into  and  possess  the  life  of  a  former 
time ;  the  men  who  can  comprehend  a 
human  life  that  belongs  to  the  past  are 
fewer  still.  The  writers  who  have  been 
most  active,  radical,'  and  influential  are 
those  whose  secret  is  most  likely  to 
escape  the  search  of  biographers  and 
critics.  Most  of  what  has  been  written 
about  such  men,  for  instance,  as  Petrarch, 
Goethe,  Voltaire,  Heine,  Carlyle,  may  be 
wisely  consigned  to  that  insatiable  spirit 
44 


The  Failings  of  Genius 

of  flame  which  devours  falsehoods  and 
crude,  worthless  stuff  with  the  same  ap 
petite  which  it  brings  to  the  choicest 
books  in  the  world.  Men  of  genius  are 
as  much  amenable  to  law  as  the  meanest 
of  their  fellow-creatures,  but  the  latter 
are  not  always  the  best  interpreters  of 
that  law.  English  criticism  owes  Carlyle 
an  immense  debt  for  destroying  the  su 
perstition  that  every  man  of  letters 
must  be  brought  to  the  bar  of  the  Thirty- 
nine  Articles  ;  and  criticism  in  this  coun 
try  is  slow  to  learn  from  such  spirits  as 
Emerson  the  true  standards  and  measures 
of  greatness.  For  the  most  part,  igno 
rance  and  stupid  unbelief  have  waylaid 
and  attempted  to  throttle  those  hardy 
spirits  who  have  ventured  to  set  foot  in 
the  Temple  of  Fame. 

Men  of  genius,  as  I  often  tell  Rosa 
lind,  must  always  stand  a  very  poor 
chance  with  the  conventional  people; 
the  people,  that  is,  who  accept  the  tradi 
tional  standards  they  find  about  them, 
and  who  live  on  the  surface  of  things. 
45 


My  Study  Fire 

It  is  the  constant  tendency  of  life,  like 
the  earth's  crust,  to  cool  off  and  harden ; 
it  is  the  common  task  of  all  men  of  origi- 

o 

nal  power  to  reverse  this  course  of  things. 
A  good  many  men  perform  this  duty  in 
a  needlessly  offensive  manner ;  they  lack 
the  sound  sense  of  Richter,  who,  when 
he  found  that  his  habit  of  omitting  the 
omnipresent  collar  from  his  toilet  set  all 
tongues  a-wagging,  wisely  concluded  to 
conform  to  fashion  in  a  trivial  matter, 
in  order  that  he  might  put  his  whole 
strength  into  a  struggle  on  vital  princi 
ples.  And  yet  there  is  no  reason  why  a 
great  man  should  not  indulge  in  his  little 
idiosyncrasy  if  he  chooses  to ;  surely  in 
telligent  men  and  women  ought  to  be 
about  better  business  than  commenting 
on  the  length  of  Tennyson's  hair  or  the 
roll  of  Whitman's  coat.  In  a  world  in 
which  so  many  people  wear  the  same 
clothes,  live  in  the  same  house,  eat  the 
same  dinner,  and  say  the  same  things, 
blessed  are  the  individualities  who  are 
not  lost  in  the  mob,  who  have  their  own 
46 


The  Failings  of  Genius 

thoughts  and  live  their  own  lives.  The 
case  of  the  man  of  genius  can  be  put  in 
a  paragraph :  the  conventional  people 
control  society ;  they  can  never  under- 
stand  him ;  hence  the  cloud  of  miscon 
ception  and  misrepresentation  in  which 
he  lives  and  dies.  To  a  man  of  sensi 
tive  temperament  this  process  is  often  in 
tensely  painful ;  to  a  man  of  virile  temper 
it  is  often  full  of  humourous  suggestion. 
Gifted  men  take  a  certain  satirical  satis 
faction  in  bringing  into  clear  light  the 
innocent  ignorance  of  those  whose  every 
word  of  criticism  or  laudation  betrayed  a 
complete  misconception.  The  charming 
old  story  of  Sophocles's  defence  of  him 
self  by  simply  reading  to  the  Athenian 
jury  the  exquisite  choral  ode  on  Colonos 
would  sound  apocryphal  if  told  of  a 
modern  jury.  The  case  of  Carlyle  fur 
nishes  a  good  illustration  ;  among  all  the 
mass  of  writing  relating  to  this  man  of 
genius  that  has  been  poured  upon  a  de 
fenceless  world,  it  is  safe  to  say  that  one 
can  count  on  the  fingers  of  one  hand  the 
47 


My  Study  Fire 

articles  that  have  betrayed  any  real  under 
standing  of  the  man.  One  readily  un 
derstands,  in  the  light  of  this  and  similar 
past  records,  the  fervour  with  which  Sir 
Henry  Taylor  reports  Tennyson  as  say 
ing  that  he  thanked  God  with  his  whole 
heart  and  soul  that  he  knew  nothing, 
and  'that  the  world  knew  nothing,  of 
Shakespeare  but  his  writings  !  In  these 
days  a  man  of  letters  takes  his  life  in  his 
hand  when  he  takes  up  his  pen ;  the 
curse  of  publicity  which  attaches  itself 
not  only  to  his  work  but  to  himself  is  as 
comprehensive  as  an  Arab  imprecation; 
it  covers  his  ancestry  and  his  posterity 
with  impartial  malediction.  When  such 
a  dust  from  rude  and  curious  feet  has 
half  suffocated  one  all  his  life,  he  must 
be  ready  to  say  with  the  Laureate: 

Come  not,  when  I  am  dead, 

To  drop  thy  foolish  tears  upon  my  grave, 
To  trample  round  my  fallen  head, 

And  vex  the  unhappy  dust  thou  wouldst  not  save. 
There  let  the  wind  sweep  and  the  plover  cry  j 
But  thou,  go  by. 
48 


The  Failings  of  Genius 

Child,  if  it  were  thine  error  or  thy  crime 
I  care  no  longer,  being  all  unblest ; 

Wed  whom  thou  wilt,  but  I  am  sick  of  Time, 
And  I  desire  to  rest. 

Pass  on,  weak  heart,  and  leave  me  where  I  lie  — 
Go  by,  go  by. 

There  is  a  respect,  a  deference,  a  deep 
and  vital  affection,  in  which  the  true 
man  of  letters  finds  one  of  his  sweetest 
and  purest  rewards ;  the  mind  and  heart 
which  hospitably  receive  his  truest  thought 
and  honour  him  for  it  must  always  com 
mand  an  answering  glow  of  gratitude. 
It  is  the  vulgar  love  of  novelty,  publi 
city,  mere  cleverness,  from  which  the  man 
of  genius  shrinks.  Perhaps  the  bitterest 
experience  in  the  life  of  the  Teacher  of 
Galilee  was  the  eagerness  with  which  the 
crowds  looked  for  miracles,  the  apathy 
with  which  they  listened  to  truth. 
Through  the  noise  and  roar  of  the  shal 
low  current  of  popular  applause  there 
runs  for  every  genuine  man  of  letters  a 
deep,  quiet  current  of  intelligent  sym- 
4  49 


My  Study  Fire 

pathy  and  love  which  fertilises  his  life 
wherever  it  comes  in  contact  with  it. 
Of  this  true  and  honest  homage  to  what 
is  best  and  noblest  in  one's  work,  Sir 
Henry  Taylor  gives  an  illustration :  "  I 
met  in  the  train  yesterday  a  meagre, 
sickly,  peevish-looking,  'elderly  man,  not 
affecting  to  be  quite  a  gentleman,  .  .  . 
and  on  showing  him  the  photographs  of 
Lionel  Tennyson  which  I  carried  in  my 
hand,  he  spoke  of  *  In  Memoriam,'  and 
said  he  had  made  a  sort  of  churchyard 
of  it,  and  had  appropriated  some  passage 
of  it  to  each  of  his  departed  friends,  and 
that  he  read  it  every  Sunday,  and  never 
came  to  the  bottom  of  the  depths  of 
it.  More  to  be  prized  this,  I  thought, 
than  the  criticism  of  critics,  however 
plauditory." 


Chapter  VI 

Christmas  Eve 

THE  world  has  been  full  of  mysteries 
to-day  ;  everybody  has  gone  about 
weighted  with  secrets.  The  children's 
faces  have  fairly  shone  with  expectancy, 
and  I  enter  easily  into  the  universal 
dream  which  at  this  moment  holds  all 
the  children  of  Christendom  under  its 
spell.  Was  there  ever  a  wider  or  more 
loving  conspiracy  than  that  which  keeps 
the  venerable  figure  of  Santa  Claus  from 
slipping  away,  with  all  the  other  oldtime 
myths,  into  the  forsaken  wonderland  of 
the  past?  Of  all  the  personages  whose 
marvellous  doings  once  filled  the  minds 
of  men,  he  alone  survives.  He  has  out 
lived  all  the  great  gods,  and  all  the  im 
pressive  and  poetic  conceptions  which 
once  flitted  between  heaven  and  earth ; 


My  Study  Fire 

these  have  gone,  but  Santa  Claus  remains 
by  virtue  of  a  common  understanding 
that  childhood  shall  not  be  despoiled  of 
one  of  its  most  cherished  beliefs,  either 
by  the  mythologist,  with  his  sun  myth 
theory,  or  the  scientist,  with  his  heartless 
diatribe  against  superstition.  There  is 
a  good  deal  more  to  be  said  on  this 
subject,  if  this  were  the  place  to  say  it ; 
even  superstition  has  its  uses,  and  some 
times,  its  sound  heart  of  truth.  He 
who  does  not  see  in  the  legend  of  Santa 
Claus  a  beautiful  faith  on  one  side,  and 
the  naive  embodiment  of  a  divine  fact 
on  the  other,  is  not  fit  to  have  a  place 
at  the  Christmas  board.  For  him  there 
should  be  neither  carol,  nor  holly,  nor 
mistletoe ;  they  only  shall  keep  the  feast 
to  whom  all  these  things  are  but  the 
outward  and  visible  signs  of  an  inward 
and  spiritual  grace. 

Rosalind   and  myself  are   thoroughly 

orthodox  when  it  comes  to  the  keeping 

of  holidays ;  here  at  least  the  ways  of 

our  fathers  are  our  ways  also.     Ortho- 

52 


Christmas  Eve 

doxy  generally  consists  in  retaining  and 
emphasising  the  disagreeable  ways  of 
the  fathers,  and  as  we  are  both  inclined 
to  heterodoxy  on  these  points,  we  make 
the  more  prominent  our  observance  of 
the  best  of  the  old-time  habits.  I  might 
preach  a  pleasant  little  sermon  just  here, 
taking  as  my  text  the  "survival  of  the 
fittest,"  and  illustrating  the  truth  from 
our  own  domestic  ritual ;  but  the  season 
preaches  its  own  sermon,  and  I  should 
only  follow  the  example  of  some  minis 
ters  and  get  between  the  text  and  my 
congregation  if  I  made  the  attempt. 
For  weeks  we  have  all  been  looking 
forward  to  this  eventful  evening,  and 
the  still  more  eventful  morrow.  There 
have  been  hurried  and  whispered  confer 
ences  hastily  suspended  at  the  sound  of 
a  familiar  step  on  the  stair ;  packages  of 
every  imaginable  size  and  shape  have 
been  surreptitiously  introduced  into  the 
house,  and  have  immediately  disappeared 
in  all  manner  of  out-of-the-way  places ; 
and  for  several  weeks  past  one  room  has 
S3 


My  Study  Fire 

been  constantly  under  lock  and  key, 
visited  only  when  certain  sharp-sighted 
eyes  were  occupied  in  other  directions. 
Through  all  this  scene  of  mystery  Rosa 
lind  has  moved  sedately  and  with  sealed 
lips,  the  common  confidant  of  all  the 
conspirators,  and  herself  the  greatest 
conspirator  of  all.  Blessed  is  the  season 
which  engages  the  whole  world  in  a  con 
spiracy  of  love ! 

After  dinner,  eaten,  let  it  be  confessed, 
with  more  haste  and  less  accompaniment 
of  talk  than  usual,  the  parlour  doors  were 
opened,  and  there  stood  the  Christmas 
tree  in  a  glow  of  light,  its  wonderful 
branches  laden  with  all  manner  of 
strange  fruits  not  to  be  found  in  the 
botanies.  The  wild  shouts,  the  merry 
laughter,  the  cries  of  delight  as  one 
coveted  fruit  after  another  dropped 
into  long-expectant  arms  still  linger  in 
my  ears  now  that  the  little  tapers  are 
burnt  out,  the  boughs  left  bare,  and 
the  actors  in  the  perennial  drama  are 
fast  asleep,  with  new  and  strange  bed- 
54 


Christmas  Eve 

fellows  selected  from  the  spoils  of  the 
night.  Cradled  between  a  delightful 
memory  and  a  blissful  anticipation,  who 
does  not  envy  them  ? 

After  this  charming  prelude  is  over, 
Rosalind  comes  into  the  study,  and 
studies  for  the  fortieth  time  the  effect 
of  the  new  design  of  decoration  which 
she  has  this  year  worked  out,  and  which 
gives  these  rather  sombre  rows  of  books 
a  homelike  and  festive  aspect.  It  pleases 
me  to  note  the  spray  of  holly  that  ob 
scures  the  title  of  Bacon's  solemn  and 
weighty  "  Essays,"  and  I  get  half  a  page 
of  suggestions  for  my  notebook  from  the 
fact  that  a  sprig  of  mistletoe  has  fallen 
on  old  Burton's  "  Anatomy  of  Melan 
choly."  Rosalind  has  reason  to  be  sat 
isfied,  and  if  I  read  her  face  aright  she 
has  succeeded  even  in  her  own  eyes  in 
bringing  Christmas,  with  its  fragrant 
memories  and  its  heavenly  visions, 
into  the  study.  I  cannot  help  think 
ing,  as  I  watch  her  piling  up  the  fire 
for  a  blaze  of  unusual  splendour,  that  if 
55 


My  Study  Fire 

more  studies  had  their  Rosalinds  to  bring 
in  the  genial  currents  of  life  there  would 
be  more  cheer  and  hope  and  large-hearted 
wisdom  in  the  books  which  the  world  is 
reading  to-day. 

When  the  fire  has  reached  a  degree  of 
intensity  and  magnitude  which  Rosalind 
thinks  adequate  to  the  occasion,  I  take 
down  a  well-worn  volume  which  opens  of 
itself  at  a  well-worn  page.  It  is  a  book 
which  I  have  read  and  re-read  many 
times,  and  always  with  a  kindling  sym 
pathy  and  affection  for  the  man  who 
wrote  it;  in  whatever  mood  I  take  it  up 
there  is  something  in  it  which  touches 
me  with  a  sense  of  kinship.  It  is  not  a 
great  book,  but  it  is  a  book  of  the  heart, 
and  books  of  the  heart  have  passed  be 
yond  the  outer  court  of  criticism  before 
we  bestow  upon  them  that  phrase  of 
supreme  regard.  There  are  other  books 
of  the  heart  around  me,  but  on  Christ 
mas  Eve  it  is  Alexander  Smith's  "  Dream- 
thorp  "  which  always  seems  to  lie  at  my 
hand,  and  when  I  take  it  up  the  well- 
56 


Christmas  Eve 

worn  volume  falls  open  at  the  essay  or» 
"  Christmas."  It  is  a  good  many  years 
since  Rosalind  and  I  began  to  read  to 
gether  on  Christmas  Eve  this  beautiful 
meditation  on  the  season,  and  now  it 
has  gathered  about  itself  such  a  host  of 
memories  that  it  has  become  part  of  our 
common  past.  It  is,  indeed,  a  veritable 
palimpsest,  overlaid  with  tender  and 
gracious  recollections  out  of  which  the 
original  thought  gains  a  new  and  subtle 
sweetness.  As  I  read  it  aloud  I  know 
that  she  sees  once  more  the  familiar 
landscape  about  Dreamthorp,  with  the 
low,  dark  hill  in  the  background,  and 
over  it  "  the  tender  radiance  that  pre 
cedes  the  moon ; "  the  village  windows 
are  all  lighted,  and  the  "whole  place 
shines  like  a  congregation  of  glow 
worms."  There  are  the  skaters  still 
"  leaning  against  the  frosty  wind ; " 
there  is  the  "gray  church  tower  amid 
the  leafless  elms,"  around  which  the 
echoes  of  the  morning  peal  of  Christ 
mas  bells  still  hover ;  the  village  folk 
57 


My  Study  Fire 

have  gathered,  "in  their  best  dresses 
and  their  best  faces;"  the  beautiful 
service  of  the  church  has  been  read 
and  answered  with  heartfelt  responses, 
the  familiar  story  has  been  told  again 
simply  and  urgently,  with  applications 
for  every  thankful  soul,  and  then  the 
congregation  has  gone  to  its  homes  and 
its  festivities. 

All  these  things,  I  am  sure,  lie  within 
Rosalind's  vision,  although  she  seems  to 
see  nothing  but  the  ruddy  blaze  of  the 
fire ;  all  these  things  I  see,  as  I  have 
seen  them  these  many  Christmas  Eves 
agone ;  but  with  this  familiar  landscape 
there  are  mingled  all  the  sweet  and  sor 
rowful  memories  of  our  common  life, 
recalled  at  this  hour  that  the  light  of 
the  highest  truth  may  interpret  them 
anew  in  the  divine  language  of  hope. 
I  read  on  until  I  come  to  the  quotation 
from  the  "  Hymn  to  the  Nativity,"  and 
then  I  close  the  book,  and  take  up  a 
copy  of  Milton  close  at  hand.  We 
have  had  our  commemoration  service  of 
58 


Christmas  Eve 

love,  and  now  there  comes  into  our 
thought,  with  the  organ  roll  of  this 
sublime  hymn,  the  universal  truth 
which  lies  at  the  heart  of  the  season. 
I  am  hardly  conscious  that  it  is  my 
voice  which  makes  these  words  audible : 
I  am  conscious  only  of  this  mighty- 
voiced  anthem,  fit  for  the  choral  song 
of  the  morning  stars  : 

Ring  out,  ye  crystal  spheres, 

And  bless  our  human  ears, 
If  ye  have  power  to  touch  our  senses  so  ; 

And  let  your  silver  chime 

Move  in  melodious  time  ; 
And  let  the  bass  of  heaven's  deep  organ  blow ; 
And,  with  your  ninefold  harmony, 
Make  up  full  concert  to  the  angelic  symphony. 

For,  if  such  holy  song 

Enwrap  our  fancy  long, 
Time  will  run  back  and  fetch  the  age  of  gold  ; 

And  speckled  vanity 

Will  sicken  soon  and  die, 

And  leprous  sin  will  melt  from  earthly  mould  ; 
And  hell  itself  will  pass  away, 
And  leave  her  dolorous  mansions  to  the  peering  day. 


59 


My  Study  Fire 

The  oracles  are  dumb, 

No  voice  or  hideous  hum 
Runs  through  the  arched  roof  in  words  deceiving ; 

Apollo  from  his  shrine 

Can  no  more  divine 

With  hollow  shriek  the  steep  of  Delphos  leaving, 
No  nightly  trance  or  breathed  spell 
Inspires   the   pale-eyed    priest   from   the   prophetic 
cell. 

The  lonely  mountains  o'er, 

And  the  resounding  shore, 
A  voice  of  weeping  heard  and  loud  lament ; 

From  haunted  spring,  and  dale 

Edged  with  poplars  pale, 
The  parting  genius  is  with  sighing  sent ; 
With  flower-enwoven  tresses  torn, 
The  nymphs  in  twilight  shades  of  tangled  thickets 
mourn. 


Like  a  psalm  the  great  Hymn  fills  the 
air,  and  like  a  psalm  it  remains  in  the 
memory.  The  fire  has  burned  low,  and 
a  soft  and  solemn  light  fills  the  room. 
Neither  of  us  speaks  while  the  clock 
strikes  twelve.  I  look  out  of  the  win 
dow.  The  heavens  are  ablaze  with 
60 


Christmas  Eve 

light,  and  somewhere  amid  those  cir 
cling  constellations  I  know  that  a  new 
star  has  found  its  place,  and  is  shining 
with  such  a  ray  as  never  before  fell  from 
heaven  to  earth. 


Chapter  VII 

New  Year's  Eve 

THE  last  fire  of  many  that  have 
blazed  on  my  hearth  these 
twelve  months  gone  is  fast  sinking  into 
ashes.  I  do  not  care  to  revive  its  expir 
ing  flame,  because  I  find  its  slow  fading 
into  darkness  harmonious  with  the  hour 
and  the  thought  which  comes  with  it  as 
the  shadow  follows  the  cloud.  While 
it  is  true  that  our  division  of  time  into 
years  is  purely  conventional,  and  finds 
no  recognition  or  record  on  the  great 
dial  face  of  the  heavens,  no  man  can  be 
quite  oblivious  of  it.  New  Year's  eve  is 
like  every  other  night;  there  is  no  pause 
in  the  march  of  the  universe,  no  breath 
less  moment  of  silence  among  created 
things  that  the  passage  of  another  twelve 
months  may  be  noted ;  and  yet  no  man 
has  quite  the  same  thoughts  this  evening 
62 


New  Year's  Eve 

that  come  with  the  coming  of  darkness 
on  other  nights.  The  vast  and  shadowy 
stream  of  time  sweeps  on  without  break, 
but  the  traveller  who  has  been  journey 
ing  with  it  cannot  be  entirely  unmindful 
that  he  is  perceptibly  nearer  the  end  of 
his  wanderings.  It  is  an  old  story,  this 
irresistible  and  ceaseless  onflow  of  life 
and  time;  time  always  scattering  the 
flowers  of  life  with  a  lavish  hand  along 
its  course ;  but  each  man  recalls  it  for 
himself  and  to  each  it  wears  some  new 
aspect.  The  vision  of  Mirza  never 
wholly  fades  from  the  sight  of  men. 

From  such  thoughts  as  these,  which 
would  be  commonplace  enough  if  it  were 
not  for  the  pathos  in  them,  I  am  recalled 
by  a  singular  play  of  the  expiring  flames 
on  the  titles  of  my  books.  Many  of 
these  are  so  indistinct  that  I  cannot  read 
them ;  indeed,  the  farther  corners  of  the 
room  are  lost  entirely  in  the  gloom  that 
is  fast  gaining  on  the  dying  light.  But 
there  are  two  rows  of  books  whose  titles 
I  discover  readily  as  I  sit  before  the 
63 


My  Study  Fire 

fire,  and  I  note  that  they  are  the  great, 
vital  works  which  belong  to  all  races  and 
times  ;  the  books  which  form  the  richest 
inheritance  of  each  new  generation,  and 
which  the  whole  world  has  come  to  hold 
as  its  best  possession.  In  the  deepening 
shadows,  and  at  this  solitary  hour,  there 
is  something  deeply  significant,  some 
thing  solemn  and  consoling,  in  the  great 
names  which  I  read  there.  A  multitude 
of  other  names,  full  of  light  and  beauty 
in  their  time,  have  been  remorselessly 
swept  into  oblivion  by  the  fading  of 
the  light ;  at  this  moment  they  are  as 
utterly  vanished  as  if  they  had  never 
been.  But  these  other  names  —  and 
I  note  among  them  Homer,  Dante, 
Shakespeare,  Milton,  Goethe,  Cervantes 
—  stand  out  clear  and  familiar  amid 
even  the  shadows. 

I  recall  the  old  maxim  of  the  English 
common  law,  that  no  time  runs  against 
the  king,  and  I  see  at  a  glance  the  deep 
and  wide  meaning  which  escapes  from 
the  meshes  of  legal  interpretation.  Here 
64 


New  Year's  Eve 

truly  are  the  kings,  and  to  them  time  is 
as  if  it  were  not.  It  has  run  against  the 
Greek  race  and  the  Greek  language,  but 
not  against  Homer ;  it  has  run  against 
mediaeval  Florence  and  the  Italy  just  on 
the  threshold  of  the  Renaissance,  but  not 
against  Dante ;  it  has  run  against  the 
sturdy  England  of  Elizabeth,  but  not 
against  Shakespeare.  All  are  dead  save 
the  kings,  and  when  one  remembers  what 
they  have  outlived  of  power  and  wealth 
and  learning  and  civilisation,  one  feels 
that  here  are  the  inheritors  of  immortal 
ity.  A  library  is,  more  truly  than  any 
other  place  to  which  men  may  go,  a 
place  of  refuge  against  time.  Not  that 
time  does  not  come  here ;  those  for 
gotten  names  on  the  upper  shelves 
bear  witness  to  its  power ;  but  here,  at 
least,  are  some  whose  serene  faces  have 
the  majesty  of  a  work  of  Phidias ;  that 
large,  calm,  penetrating  look  of  immor 
tality  of  the  elder  kings  when  they  stood 
in  unbroken  line  with  the  gods.  Every 
library  which  has  its  poets'  corner  —  and 
s  65 


My  Study  Fire 

what  library  has  not  ?  —  possesses  the 
memorials  of  royalty  more  truly  than 
Westminster  itself;  more  really,  in  fact, 
because  these  kings  are  not  dead.  They 
rule  a  mightier  host  to-day  than  ever 
before,  and  the  boundaries  of  their  com 
mon  realm  are  also  the  frontier  lines  of 
civilisation.  In  such  company  the  pas 
sage  of  time  is,  after  all,  a  thing  of  little 
account.  It  destroys  only  the  imper 
fect,  the  partial,  the  limited,  the  transi 
tory  ;  here  are  the  truths  over  which 
time  has  no  power,  because  they  are  part 
of  that  eternity  to  which  it  is  itself  trib 
utary.  And  just  here  is  the  secret  of 
the  immortality  which  these  kings  have 
inherited ;  they  have  passed  through  all 
the  appearances  of  things,  the  passing 
symbols,  and  the  imperfect  embodiments 
of  truth  to  truth  itself,  which  is  contem 
poraneous  with  every  age  and  race. 
Time  destroys  only  the  symbols  and  the 
inadequate  expression  of  truth,  but  it  is 
powerless  to  touch  truth.  The  writers 
who  were  once  famous  and  now  forgotten 
66 


New  Year's  Eve 

were  men  who  caught  the  aspect  of  the 
hour  and  gave  it  graceful  or  forceful 
expression ;  but  when  the  hour  passed, 
the  book  which  grew  out  of  it  went  with 
it  as  the  flower  goes  with  the  season 
which  saw  its  blossoming.  The  book 
of  the  moment  often  has  immense 
vogue,  while  the  book  of  the  age,  which 
comes  in  its  company  from  the  press, 
lies  unnoticed ;  but  the  great  book  has 
its  revenge.  It  lives  to  see  its  contem 
porary  pushed  up  shelf  by  shelf  until  it 
finds  its  final  resting-place  in  the  garret 
or  the  auction  room. 

The  conviction  deepens  in  me  year 
by  year  that- the  best  possible  education 
which  any  man  can  acquire  is  a  genuine 
and  intimate  acquaintance  with  these  few 
great  minds  who  have  escaped  the  wrecks 
of  time  and  have  become,  with  the  lapse  of 
years,  a  kind  of  impersonal  wisdom,  sum 
ming  up  the  common  experience  of  the 
.  race  and  distilling  it  drop  by  drop  into 
the  perfect  forms  of  art.  The  man  who 
knows  his  Homer  thoroughly  knows 
67 


My  Study  Fire 

more  about  the  Greeks  than  he  who  has 
familiarised  himself  with  all  the  work  of 
the  archaeologist  and  philologist  and  his 
torians  of  the  Homeric  age-,  the  man 
who  has  mastered  Dante  has  penetrated 
the  secret  of  medievalism  ;  the  man  who 
counts  Shakespeare  as  his  friend  can 
afford  to  leave  most  other  books  about 
Elizabeth's  England  unread.  To  really 
know  Homer,  Dante,  Shakespeare,  and 
Goethe  is  to  know  the  best  the  world  has 
thought  and  said  and  done,  is  to  enter 
into  that  inheritance  of  experience  and 
knowledge  which  is  the  truest,  and  at 
bottom  the  only,  education.  Most  of 
us  know  too  many  writers,  and  waste  our 
strength  in  a  vain  endeavour  to  establish 
relations  of  intimacy  with  a  multitude  of 
men,  great  and  small,  who  profess  to 
have  some  claim  upon  us.  It  is  both 
pleasant  and  wise  to  have  a  large  ac 
quaintance,  to  know  life  broadly  and  at 
its  best;  but  our  intimate  friends  can 
never,  in  the  nature  of  things,  be  many. 
We  may  know  a  host  of  interesting 
68 


New  Year's  Eve 

people,  but  we  can  really  live  with  but  a 
few.  And  it  is  these  few  and  faithful 
ones  whose  names  I  see  in  the  dying 
light  of  the  old  year  and  the  first  faint 
gleam  of  the  new. 


Chapter  VIII 

A  Scholar's  Dream 

THE  delicate  hands  of  the  little  clock 
on  the  mantel  indicated  that  thirty 
minutes  had  passed  since  the  musical 
chimes  within  had  rung  eleven.  The 
open  fire  below  was  burning  brightly,  for 
the  flame  had  eaten  into  the  heart  of  the 
back  log,  and  was  transmuting  its  slow, 
rich  growth  into  a  warm  glow  that 
touched  the  outlines  of  the  room  with 
a  soft  splendour  and  made  a  charming 
picture  of  its  mingled  lights  and  shadows. 
The  learning  of  the  world  rose  tier  above 
tier  on  the  shelves  that  filled  the  space 
between  floor  and  ceiling,  and  following 
the  lines  of  gold  lettering  along  the  un 
broken  rows  one  read  august  and  impe 
rial  names  in  the  kingdom  of  thought. 
An  ample  writing-table,  piled  high  with 
pamphlets  and  books,  stood  in  the  centre 


A  Scholar's  Dream 

of  the  room,  and  the  loose  sheets  of  paper 
carelessly  thrown  together  gave  evidence 
of  a  work  only  recently  interrupted.  With 
out,  the  solemn  silence  of  midnight  and 
the  radiant  stars  brooded  over  the  stainless 
fields,  white  with  freshly  fallen  snow. 

Ralph  Norton  had  been  looking  into 
the  fire  these  thirty  minutes,  in  a  medi 
tation  that  was  almost  wholly  pathetic. 
His  seventy  years  passed  in  swift  proces 
sion  before  him,  coming  up  one  by  one 
out  of  the  invisible  past,  and  pronouncing 
an  inaudible  judgment  upon  his  career. 
There  was  a  presence  of  indefinable  and 
unusual  solemnity  in  the  time,  for  it  was 
the  close  of  a  century,  and  in  a  brief  half- 
hour  another  hundred  years  would  be 
rounded  to  completion.  By  the  common 
judgment  of  the  thinking  world,  Ralph 
Norton  was  the  foremost  man  of  his  age; 
no  other  had  felt  its  doubts  so  keenly, 
or  drank  in  its  inspiration  with  such  a 
mighty  thirst  as  he.  His  thought  had 
searched  into  its  secret  places  and  mas 
tered  all  its  wisdom ;  his  heart  had  felt  its 


My  Study  Fire 

deep  pulsations  in  the  solitude  of  un 
broken  and  heroic  studies;  his  genius 
had  given  its  spirit  a  voice  of  matchless 
compass  and  eloquence.  For  half  a  cen 
tury  the  world  had  laid  his  words  to 
heart,  and  built  its  faith  upon  his  think 
ing.  While  the  busy  tides  of  activity 
ebbed  and  flowed  through  the  great  chan 
nels  of  civilisation,  he  had  lived  apart  in 
a  deep,  earnest,  and  whole-hearted  conse 
cration  to  truth.  The  clearly  cut  feat 
ures,  the  keen,  benignant  eyes,  the  noble 
poise  of  head,  the  wistful  expression  as 
of  one  striving  to  pierce  the  heart  of 
some  mystery,  were  signs  of  a  personality 
that  had  left  its  impress  on  two  genera 
tions,  and  now,  in  its  grand  maturity, 
was  still  waiting  for  some  larger  fulfil 
ment  of  the  promise  of  life.  Behind  him, 
among  the  throng  of  books,  indistin 
guishable  in  the  dim  light,  were  the  works 
into  which  the  life  of  his  life  had  gone. 
They  recorded  explorations  into  many 
fields,  they  had  torn  down  old  faiths  amid 
storms  of  discussion  and  condemnation, 
72 


A  Scholar's  Dream 

they  had  laid  new  foundations  for  belief 
in  the  silence  of  meditative  and  self- 
forgetful  years.  The  strength  and  the 
weakness  of  the  age  had  written  them 
selves  upon  those  pages,  in  the  ebbing  of 
inherited  belief  and  the  inflow  of  convic 
tions  born  out  of  new  insight  into  and 
new  contact  with  the  experiences  of  life. 
The  old  man  sat  motionless,  with  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  slow  moving  hands  ;  he 
seemed  to  be  numbering  the  brief  mo 
ments  of  his  unfinished  career.  The 
century  which  had  spoken  through  him 
was  ebbing  to  its  last  second,  and  as  it 
sank  silently  into  the  gulf  of  years  his 
own  thought  seemed  to  pause  in  its  dar 
ing  flight,  his  own  voice  to  sink  into 
silence.  The  age  and  its  master  had 
done  their  work,  and  now,  in  the  dim 
light  of  a  room  over  which  the  spirit  of 
the  one  had  brooded  and  in  which  the 
brain  and  hand  of  the  other  had  wrought, 
they  were  about  to  separate.  The  deli 
cate  hands  moved  on  without  conscious 
ness  of  the  mighty  life  whose  limits  they 
73 


My  Study  Fire 

were  fast  registering,  the  stars  looked 
down  from  the  eternity  in  which  they 
shone  unmindful  of  the  change  from  era 
to  era,  the  world  of  men  was  remote  and 
unconscious;  the  old  man  was  alone  with 
the  sinking  fire  and  the  passing  century. 
The  minute  hand  moved  on,  the  fire 
flashed  up  fitfully  and  sank  down  in 
ashes,  there  was  a  moment  of  hush,  and 
then  slowly  and  solemnly  the  chimes  in 
the  little  clock  rang  twelve.  Norton 
shivered  as  if  a  sudden  chill  had  struck 
him,  and  peal  on  peal  through  the  mid 
night  air  the  bells  rang  in  a  new  century. 
The  man  who  had  worked  as  few  men 
work,  and  yet  had  shown  no  sign  of 
breaking,  felt  strangely  old  in  a  moment, 
and  the  carol  of  the  bells,  flinging  across 
the  hills  their  jubilant  welcome  of  the 
new  time,  struck  on  his  inner  ear  like  a 
requiem  for  a  past  that  was  irrevocably 
gone.  In  an  instant  life  lost  its  familiar 
and  homelike  aspect,  the  impalpable 
presence  of  the  new  century  rose  like  a 
vast  empty  house  through  which  no  hu- 
74 


A  Scholar's  Dream 

man  feet  had  walked,  in  which  no  human 
hearts  had  beat,  over  which  no  atmos 
phere  of  hope  and  love  and  dear  old 
usage  hung  warm  and  genial.  Norton 
had  become  a  stranger ;  his  citizenship 
had  gone  with  the  age  which  had  con 
ferred  it;  his  friendships  seemed  dim  and 
ghostly,  like  myths  out  of  which  the 
currents  of  life  had  ebbed.  With  a  sink 
ing  heart,  groping  like  one  suddenly  be 
come  blind  for  some  familiar  thing,  he 
turned  and  looked  at  the  row  of  books 
behind  him  upon  whose  covers  his  name 
was  stamped.  In  the  receding  world 
that  was  swiftly  moving  away  from  him 
they  alone  remained  faithful. 

"  My  life  is  but  a  breath,"  he  said,  as 
his  eye  fell  upon  them ;  "  but  thought 
does  not  die,  and  here  I  have  written  my 
own  immortality.  Here  is  the  record  of 
all  I  have  felt  and  thought  and  done. 
These  books  are  myself;  and  though  I 
perish  I  live  again." 

The  old  man's  eye  ran  down  the  line, 
and  recalled,  as  it  fell  upon  volume  after 
75 


My  Study  Fire 

volume,  how  each  had  grown  into  being. 
Here  were  books  of  keen,  open-eyed,  and 
tireless  observation,  into  which  had  gone 
years  of  unbroken  study  of  external  life, 
with  such  fruitful  results  as  come  to  the 
man  of  trained  faculty,  of  deep  insight, 
and  of  heroic  patience.  Here  were  works 
of  daring  speculation  that  had  traversed 
the  whole  realm  of  knowledge  and  struck 
luminous  lines  of  order  through  many  an 
outlying  darkness.  Upon  these  volumes 
Norton's  eye  rested  with  peculiar  delight; 
those  which  had  gone  before  were  only 
his  careful  reports  of  the  world  without 
him,  these  were  the  mighty  lines  into 
which  he  had  put  his  meditations  on  the 
problems  of  the  universe ;  these  were  the 
utterance  of  his  ripest  thought,  the  fruit 
age  of  his  best  hours,  the  outcome  of  his 
long  training,  his  laborious  studies,  his 
whole  thoughtful  life.  In  these  books 
he  knew  that  the  vanished  century  had 
written  itself  most  deeply  and  truly. 
Here  were  the  eloquent  lines  in  which 
its  very  soul  seemed  to  burn  with  self- 
76 


A  Scholar's  Dream 

revealing  splendour ;  here  were  its  affir 
mations  and  its  negations  ;  here  was,  in  a 
word,  the  sum  and  substance  of  that  in 
dividual  thought,  spirit,  sentiment,  which 
made  it  different  from  the  centuries  that 
went  before  and  would  forever  keep  it 
distinct  and  apart  from  the  centuries  that 
were  to  follow. 

At  the  end  of  the  shelf  was  a  thin 
volume,  modest,  unpretentious,  almost 
trivial  beside  the  greater  works  around  it. 
The  light  of  pride  faded  out  of  the  old 
man's  eyes  when  they  rested  upon  this 
little  book,  and  a  deep,  unutterable 
pathos  filled  them  with  unshed  tears. 
There  had  been  one  year  of  his  prosper 
ous  life  when  the  light  of  the  sun  was 
darkened  and  the  beauty  of  the  heavens 
overhung  with  clouds ;  one  year  when 
his  habits  of  investigation  had  been  cast 
aside;  when  thinking  mocked  him  with 
its  insufficiency  and  the  search  for  truth 
seemed  idle  and  unreal;  one  year  when 
the  sorrows  of  his  own  heart  rolled  like 
billows  over  the  pursuits  of  his  mind, 
77 


My  Study  Fire 

over  the  aims  of  his  career,  and  rose  until 
they  threatened  the  whole  universe  in 
which  he  lived.  He  ceased  to  observe, 
to  speculate,  and  only  felt.  The  train 
ing  of  the  schools,  the  long  discipline  of 
his  maturity,  the  gifts  and  acquisitions 
of  which  lifted  him  above  his  fellow, 
seemed  to  vanish  out  of  his  life  and  left 
him  only  human  ;  he  was  one  with  the 
vast  throng  about  him  who  were  toiling, 
loving,  suffering,  and  dying  under  all  the 
manifold  experiences  of  humanity.  In 
that  year  there  was  much  that  was  sacred 
and  incommunicable,  much  that  had  re 
ceded  into  the  silence  of  his  deeper  self; 
but  months  later,  when  the  agony  of 
grief  had  spent  itself  and  the  passion  and 
bitterness  had  gone,  while  the  heart  was 
yet  tender  and  tremulous  with  sympathy, 
this  little  book  had  been  born.  It  was  a 
transcription  of  experience ;  there  were 
training,  culture,  deep  thought  on  every 
page,  but  these  were  fused,  vitalised, 
humanised  by  suffering,  by  struggle,  by 
aspiration.  It  was  a  chapter  out  of  living 
78 


A  Scholar's  Dream 

history ;  the  mind  of  the  universe  was  there 
in  hint  and  suggestion  of  bold  thought, 
but  the  heart  of  the  universe  was  still  more 
truly  there  in  hushed  pulsations. 

Norton  rose  from  his  chair  and  took 
the  book  from  its  place  on  the  shelf. 
Its  covers  were  worn  as  if  with  much 
handling,  its  pages  bore  evidence  of 
frequent  reading,  and  as  the  leaves  fell 
apart  in  his  hand  tender  and  sorrowful 
memories  came  back  to  the  lonely  old 
man  with  a  strange  pathos.  He  held 
the  worn  book  almost  reverently,  the 
music  of  unforgotten  years  sounded 
again  in  his  soul,  buried  hopes  rose 
from  their  sepulchres  and  were  radiant 
with  life  and  promise  as  of  old,  love  that 
had  been  groping  and  waiting  in  the 
shadows  of  eternity  these  many  years 
once  more  had  vision  of  vanished  faces, 
and  all  the  sweet  use  and  habit  of  happy 
days  returned  with  their  precious  minis 
tries.  Norton  opened  page  after  page 
of  the  past  as  he  turned  page  after  page 
of  the  little  book. 

79 


My  Study  Fire 

"  The  world  cares  little  for  this,"  he 
said  to  himself  at  last,  as  he  returned  it 
to  its  place  ;  "  this  is  only  for  me  ;  time 
will  leave  it  with  the  age  which  saw  its 
birth,  as  a  thing  too  trivial  and  personal 
to  be  carried  on  the  march." 

Then  he  sat  down  once  more,  gathered 
the  few  coals  together,  blew  them  into  a 
little  glow  and  rekindled  the  dead  fire. 
The  bells  had  long  been  silent  and  the 
first  hour  of  the  new  age  was  already 
spent.  The  old  man  watched  the  fire 
as  it  rose  cheerfully  out  of  the  ashes  of 
the  earlier  burning,  receiving  the  touch 
of  flame  from  it  and  then  sending  out  its 
own  new  glow  and  heat.  Out  of  this 
simple  process,  which  he  had  watched  a 
thousand  times  before,  a  truth  seemed  to 
take  form  and  project  itself  far  on  into 
the  coming  time.  The  past  slowly 
drifted  out  of  his  thought,  which  moved 
forward  as  if  to  discover  what  lay  be 
hind  the  veil  of  the  future.  The  low, 
monotonous  ticking  of  the  little  clock 
became,  in  his  ears,  the  audible  pulsa- 
80 


A  Scholar's  Dream 

tions  of  time.  At  first  the  beats  were 
slow  and  far  apart,  but  as  he  listened 
they  seemed  to  multiply,  the  minutes 
swiftly  lengthened  into  hours,  the  hours 
ran  into  years,  and  the  years  moved  on 
silently  into  centuries. 

Almost  without  surprise  Norton  felt 
that  two  centuries  had  gone.  He  turned 
from  the  fire  on  which  his  gaze  had  been 
fixed  and  looked  about  the  room.  It 
was  still  the  working  room  of  a  man 
of  letters,  but  it  was  strangely  changed. 
Books  rose  as  formerly  from  floor  to 
ceiling  in  unbroken  ranks,  but  Norton, 
whose  knowledge  of  literature  had  been 
so  exact  and  comprehensive,  knew  barely 
one  of  the  names  stamped  on  the  backs. 
His  eye  ran  anxiously  along  the  titles, 
and  when  it  rested  upon  a  familiar  name 
he  found  but  a  tithe  of  the  works  which 
he  had  once  known.  Here  and  there  a 
solitary  volume  greeted  him  like  a  friend 
in  a  crowd  of  strange  faces.  He  searched 
for  books  that  had  been  his  hourly  com 
panions,  and  discovered  only  here  and 
6  81 


My  Study  Fire 

there  a  single  thin  volume,  the  sole  re 
siduum  of  a  system  of  thought.  With 
a  pathetic  interest  he  read  the  names 
that  were  meaningless  to  him,  and  tak 
ing  down  one  of  the  strange  volumes 
opened  it  at  random.  The  first  sen 
tence  that  met  his  eye  was  a  quotation 
from  himself,  the  second  commented 
upon  his  thought  as  an  illustration  of 
the  crude  methods  and  untrustworthy 
results  of  earlier  observers.  "  The  writer 
from  whom  I  have  quoted,"  the  author 
went  on  to  say,  "  was  a  man  whose  in 
tegrity  of  mind  was  unquestioned  by  his 
contemporaries  and  must  be  undoubted 
by  us,  but,  in  the  light  of  later  research,  it 
is  difficult  to  understand  how  so  keen  an 
intellect  could  have  mistaken  so  entirely 
the  evident  teaching  of  fact."  Norton 
closed  the  book  with  a  sinking  heart. 
The  theory  held  up  as  a  conspicuous 
error  was  one  upon  which  he  had  spent 
years  of  thought,  and  upon  which  his 
fame  had  largely  rested. 

He  took  down  another  volume,  and 
82 


A  Scholar's  Dream 

opened  it  also  at  random.  He  read  the 
first  page  carefully,  and  with  a  growing 
confusion  of  thought.  There  were  sen 
tences  which  he  could  understand,  but 
the  page  was  incomprehensible  to  him. 
He  read  it  more  slowly  and  with  an  in 
stinctive  perception  that  it  was  a  piece  of 
close  reasoning,  but  its  meaning  wholly 
eluded  him.  He  caught  glimpses  of  it, 
and  then  it  slipped  away  into  mystery 
again.  The  writer's  standpoint  was  so 
novel  that  he  could  not  readily  reach  it ; 
natural  processes  and  forces  were  sug 
gested  of  which  he  was  entirely  ignorant. 
He  opened  book  after  book  with  the 
same  result ;  a  feeling  of  unutterable 
solitude  came  over  him  as  it  slowly 
dawned  upon  him  that  two  centuries 
intervened  between  his  thought  and 
that  of  the  men  whose  works  were 
gathered  around  him.  He  was  an  alien 
in  an  age  which  had  no  place  for  him  ; 
a  stranger  in  a  world  out  of  which  all 
familiar  objects  had  vanished. 

At  last  he  remembered  his  own  work, 
83 


My  Study  Fire 

and  searched  eagerly  from  case  to  case 
for  the  books  into  which  he  had  poured 
the  wealth  of  his  mental  life.  Not  a 
single  volume  was  there,  and  the  old 

o 

thinker  turned  away  with  a  despairing 
sigh. 

"  With  all  my  conscience,  my  self- 
denial,  my  toil,  I  lived  in  vain,"  he  said 
to  himself.  Then,  feeling  for  a  moment 
the  force  of  an  old  habit,  he  drew  a  chair 
up  to  the  writing-table  and  sat  down. 
He  grew  more  and  more  confused ;  the 
very  titles  on  the  pamphlets  scattered  over 
the  table  were  incomprehensible  to  him. 
He  glanced  at  the  fire,  and  its  flames 
were  strange  ;  they  were  fed  by  some  ma 
terial  unknown  to  him ;  the  old  familiar 
world  had  drifted  hopelessly  away. 

Upon  the  writing-table  lay  a  little 
volume  with  a  few  freshly  written  sheets 
folded  between  its  pages.  Norton  opened 
the  book  mechanically,  and  then,  with  a 
suddenly  aroused  interest,  turned  quickly 
from  page  to  page.  The  sight  of  the 
words  was  like  the  sound  of  a  familiar 
84 


A  Scholar's  Dream 

voice  in  the  darkness,  or  the  opening  of 
a  window  upon  some  familiar  landscape. 
A  soft  light  came  into  his  eyes,  and  his 
face  flushed  with  inexpressible  happiness. 
The  little  book  was  his  own  thought  and 
speech ;  not  the  outcome  of  his  specula 
tion  and  research,  but  the  utterance  of 
his  one  year  of  deep  interior  life.  He 
glanced  through  it  lovingly  as  one  would 
read  the  soul  of  a  friend,  catching  here 
and  there  some  well-remembered  sen 
tence,  some  word  stamped  in  the  fire 
of  his  great  trial,  some  phrase  wrung 
out  of  his  very  soul.  It  mattered  little 
to  him  now  that  the  great  works  out  of 
which  he  had  thought  to  build  an  earthly 
immortality  had  vanished ;  this  deepest 
and  truest  word  of  his  soul,  this  most 
vital  and  genuine  outcome  of  his  life, 
had  survived  the  touch  of  time  and  still 
spoke  to  a  living  generation.  As  he 
turned  from  page  to  page  the  loose 
sheets  slipped  from  the  book  upon  the 
table.  They  had  evidently  been  recently 
written,  and  seemed  to  be  personal  re- 
85 


My  Study  Fire 

flections    rather   than    any  formal   com 
position. 

"  I  have  come  to  a  place  in  my  life," 
said  the  unknown  writer,  "  from  which 
I  look  back  upon  the  past  as  one  looks 
over  a  long  course  from  the  summit 
that  commands  it  all.  I  have  attained 
a  great  age  and  great  honours,  as  the 
world  counts  honours,  knowing  perfectly 
that  achievements  are  relative,  not  posi 
tive,  and  that  I  am  simply  less  ignorant, 
not  more  learned,  than  my  fellows.  I 
find  myself  everywhere  spoken  of  and 
written  about  as  the  first  man  of  the  age, 
its  voice,  prophet,  interpreter,  and  what 
not,  with  a  keen  sense  of  the  poverty 
of  a  century  that  can  read  its  deepest 
thought  in  aught  that  I  have  said  or 
written.  I  have  given  my  life  to  the 
search  for  truth ;  I  have  travelled  here 
and  there  for  new  outlooks ;  I  have  with 
drawn  into  deep  seclusions  for  new  in 
sights  ;  I  have  questioned  all  the  sciences 
that  have  grown  to  such  vast  propor 
tions,  and  tell  us  so  fully  and  so  accu- 
86 


A  Scholar's  Dream 

rately  of  the  methods  of  being,  but  leave 
us  as  much  in  the  dark  as  ever  concern 
ing  its  secret ;  I  have  drank  deep  at  the 
fountains  of  ancient  learning ;  I  have 
studied  all  literatures  and  looked  long 
and  earnestly  into  the  soul  of  man  in 
the  revelation  of  books.  In  a  word,  I 
have  traversed  the  whole  world  of  knowl 
edge,  and  now,  at  the  summit  of  my 
years,  with  such  rewards  as  the  rever 
ence  of  all  men  can  give  me,  I  return 
to  the  point  whence  I  set  out.  The 
universe  still  sweeps  beyond  me  vaster 
and  remoter  for  all  my  struggle  to  mas 
ter  it,  the  illimitable  abysses  are  more 
awful  because  I  have  looked  into  them, 
the  mystery  of  life  is  more  insoluble 
because  I  have  striven  to  pierce  it.  I 
have  simply  learned  to  live  my  own 
personal  life  with  fortitude,  patience, 
and  trust. 

"In  my  youth  I  came  upon  this  little 

book,    and    was    deeply    moved    by  the 

disclosure    of  a  suffering    soul   I   found 

in    it,    by    its    unforced    and    unstudied 

87 


My  Study  Fire 

depth  of  feeling,  by  the  intensity  of  its 
humanity,  by  its  agony,  its  love,  and  its 
faith.  I  learned  it  almost  by  heart,  and 
then  I  passed  on  into  studies  and  spec 
ulations  which  seemed  to  dwarf  it  by 
their  vastness.  But  I  come  back  again 
to  the  goal  from  which  I  set  out,  to 
the  guide  who  first  opened  the  depths 
of  my  life,  and  who,  through  his  own 
suffering,  found  the  pathway  into  the 
heart  of  the  mystery  which  I  have 
missed  in  all  my  searching.  When  I 
remember  how  earnestly  men  have 
striven  to  think  their  way  into  the 
secrets  of  the  universe,  and  how  cer 
tainly  they  have  failed,  I  see  clearly  that 
only  he  who  lives  into  truth  finds  it, 
and  that  love  alone  is  immortal." 

Here  the  writing  ended,  and  Norton 
felt  himself  in  the  presence  of  a  mind  as 
great  and  as  sincere  as  his  own.  He 
replaced  the  loose  sheets  in  the  volume 
and  laid  the  little  book  in  its  place ; 
in  his  joy  that  any  impulse  from  his  own 
heart  had  touched  and  inspired  another 
88 


A  Scholar's  Dream 

across  the  gulf  of  years  he  had  found 
the  true  immortality.  The  fire  had 
burned  out,  and  as  he  bent  over  it  to 
find  some  live  coal  among  the  ashes, 
the  little  clock  on  the  mantel  chimed 
two,  and  with  a  start  he  found  himself 
in  his  own  study. 


89 


Chapter  IX 

A  Flame  of  Driftwood 

WE  have  been  sitting  to-night  be 
fore  a  fire  of  driftwood,  and,  as 
the  many-coloured  flames  have  shot  up, 
flickered,  and  gone  out,  thought  has 
made  all  manner  of  vagrant  journeyings. 
Rosalind  has  occasionally  commented 
on  some  splendid  tongue  of  fire,  but 
for  the  most  part  we  have  been  silent. 
There  are  nights  —  noctes  ambrosian<e  — 
when  inspiring  talk,  that  nectar  of  the 
gods,  has  held  us  long  and  made  us  re 
luctant  to  cover  the  smouldering  embers. 
There  are  other  nights  when  we  fall 
under  some  spell  of  silence,  and  the 
world  without  us  stirs  into  strange  viv 
idness  the  world  within,  and  the  chief 
importance  of  things  visible  and  tangi 
ble  seems  to  be  their  power  to  loosen 
thought  and  set  it  free  to  spread  its 
wings  in  the  empyrean.  When  one  falls 
90 


A  Flame  of  Driftwood 

into  this  mood  and  sits  slippered  and  at 
ease  before  the  crooning  fire,  while  the 
wintry  winds  are  trumpeting  abroad,  one 
easily  comprehends  the  charm  of  Orien 
tal  mysticism ;  the  charm  of  unbroken 
silence  in  which  one  pursues  and  at  last 
overtakes  himself.  The  world  has  van 
ished  like  a  phantasmagoria ;  duties  and 
cares  and  responsibilities  have  gone  with 
the  material  relations  and  pursuits  which 
gave  them  birth  ;  one  is  alone  with  him 
self,  and  within  the  invisible  horizons  of 
his  own  thought  all  mysteries  are  hid 
den  and  revealed.  I  have  often  thought 

D 

that  if  I  ever  turn  heretic  I  shall  be  a 
fire-worshipper.  These  volatile  flames 
have  immense  powers  of  disintegration  ; 
one  can  imagine  the  visible  universe 
crumbling  into  ashes  at  their  touch. 
But  when  they  dance  before  the  eye  the 
disintegration  they  effect  has  something 
of  the  miracle  of  creation  in  it ;  so  alive 
does  the  imagination  become  when  this 
glow  touches  it,  so  swift  is  thought  to 
pursue  and  overtake  that  which  entirely 
91 


My  Study  Fire 

eludes  it  by  the  light  of  day  !  I  can  hardly 
imagine  myself  sitting  motionless  in 
broad  daylight,  in  the  unbroken  calm  of 
an  anticipated  Nirvana ;  but  I  can  easily 
fancy  myself  under  the  perpetual  spell 
of  the  fire  spirit  dreaming  forever  of 
worlds  in  which  I  have  never  lived. 

The  peculiar  fascination  of  a  driftwood 
fire  is  partly  material  and  partly  imagina 
tive.  The  brilliancy  of  the  flame,  the 
unexpected  transformations  of  colour, 
the  swift  movement  of  the  restless  waves 
of  fire  from  log  to  log,  the  sudden  splen 
dour  of  hue  breaking  out  of  smoky 
blackness  —  all  these  material  features 
supplement  the  unfailing  association  of 
the  fagots  themselves.  They  have  no 
audible  speech  to  report  their  journey- 
ings,  but  the  tropical  richness  of  the 
flame  which  consumes  them  hints  at  all 
manner  of  strange  wanderings  in  remote 
and  strange  parts  of  the  earth.  The 
secret  of  the  sea  where  it  breaks,  phos 
phorescent,  on  the  islands  of  the  equator, 
seems  to  be  hiding  itself  within  those 
92 


A  Flame  of  Driftwood 

weird,  bewildering  flames.  One  feels  as 
if  he  were  near  the  mystery  of  that  vast, 
dim  life  of  the  great  seas  so  alien  from 
all  save  the  kindred  solitariness  and 
majesty  of  the  heavens ;  one  feels  as  if 
something  deeper  and  stranger  than  ar 
ticulate  life  were  revealing  itself  before 
him,  if  he  but  had  the  wit  to  understand 
it.  This  vast,  silent  world  which  girdles 
our  little  world  of  speech  and  action,  as 
the  great  seas  hold  some  island  locked 
in  their  immeasurable  wastes  —  is  it  not 
this  sublime  background  of  mystery 
which  gives  our  books,  our  art,  our 
achievements,  their  deepest  and  most 
pathetic  meaning?  One  lays  down  a 
great  book  with  a  penetrating  sense  of 
its  inadequacy.  Judged  by  any  human 
standard,  we  recognise  its  noble  com 
pleteness  ;  but  measured  against  the 
world  of  suffering  which  it  portrays, 
how  like  a  solitary  star  it  shines  out 
of  gulfs  of  impenetrable  darkness ! 
Scholars  are  still  discussing  the  problem 
which  Shakespeare  presented  in  "  Ham- 
93 


My  Study  Fire 

let , "  but  as  one  takes  up  the  tragedy 
in  some  moment  of  deeper  insight  and 
becomes  suddenly  conscious  in  his  own 
thought  of  its  deeper  significance,  becomes 
suddenly  aware  of  the  outlying  gloom  in 
which  the  poet's  torch  is  swallowed  up, 
how  small  the  question  of  real  or  feigned 
insanity  becomes !  The  slow  transfor 
mation  of  purpose  into  action  has  never 
been  more  completely  or  more  marvel 
lously  told  than  in  "  The  Ring  and  the 
Book."  Never  before  have  the  secret 
processes  of  different  minds  been  studied 
with  such  intensity  of  insight  and  brought 
to  light  with  such  vividness  and  splendour 
of  expression.  But  when  Count  Guido 
and  Pompilia  and  Caponsacchi  and  the 
Pope  have  each  told  their  story,  is  it  not 
the  finest  result  of  Browning's  art  that 
the  pathos  of  the  tragedy  oppresses  us 
as  something  still  unexpressed,  something 
essentially  inexpressible?  The  secret  of 
every  great  work  of  art  is  its  power  to 
send  the  imagination  to  search  for  itself 
in  the  dim  world  out  of  which  it  comes, 
94 


A  Flame  of  Driftwood 

never  as  a  perfect  creation,  but  always  as 
a  witness  to  the  existence  of  something 
greater  than  itself.  Our  noblest  words 
and  works  are  to  the  great  realities  which 
they  strive  to  reveal  what  the  text-books 
of  astronomy  are  to  the  immeasurable 
heavens  of  which  they  speak.  It  would 
be  a  poor  world  if  any  genius  of  man 
could  fathom  it  and  any  language  of 
man  express  it ! 

As  the  driftwood  fire  flickers  and 
dances,  I  seem  to  feel  about  me  the 
vast,  dim  seas  whose  hidden  splendour  it 
has  brought  into  my  study,  and  touched 
the  oldest  books  with  a  new  association, 
with  a  deep  and  strange  suggestiveness. 
How  imperfect  are  the  most  famous  of 
these  transcriptions  of  the  soul  and  the 
wonderful  world  through  which  it  travels ; 
and  yet  how  marvellously  true  and  deep 
they  are!  Like  these  fagots,  carelessly 
gathered  on  the  beach,  they  have  caught 
the  secret  of  the  fathomless  deeps,  and 
they  are  touched  with  a  beauty  not  their 
own. 

95 


Chapter  X 

Dream  Worlds 

ROSALIND  is  not  always  quite  sure 
that  my  occupations  are  entirely 
profitable.  I  notice  at  times  an  uncer 
tain  expression  in  her  face  when  she 
finds  me  brooding  over  some  old  myth 
for  hours  together.  I  am  conscious  of 
a  disapproval  which  is  rarely  expressed, 
but  which  is  none  the  less  unmistakable 
in  a  nature  so  unflinchingly  and  uncom 
promisingly  honest.  I  do  not  mean 
that  Rosalind  has  no  liking  for  fables  or 
old  legends.  On  the  contrary,  I  have 
heard  her  read  the  "  Tanglewood  Tales  " 
and  "  Wonder  Book  "  so  many  times  to 
the  children  that  I  associate  certain  clear 
tones  of  her  voice  and  certain  character 
istic  accentuations  with  passages  in  the 
story  of  Midas  and  of  Perseus.  Rosa 
lind's  doubt  is  in  regard  to  the  great 
96 


Dream  Worlds 

value  which  I  attach  to  these  venerable 
fictions,  and  to  the  very  considerable 
time  I  often  devote  to  them.  Last 
night,  after  I  had  given  the  fire  a  critical 
examination,  and  had  settled  back  again 
in  my  chair  to  further  reading  of  a  new 
and  fascinating  book  of  popular  tales,  I 
noticed  the  faintest  possible  scepticism 
in  Rosalind's  face.  Rosalind  sometimes 
permits  herself  to  suspect  that  I  am 
wasting  a  day,  and  I  fear  there  are  oc 
casional  grounds  for  such  a  suspicion. 
There  are  days  when  the  mind  refuses 
to  be  put  to  any  service ;  it  lounges 
about  according  to  its  mood,  and  yields 
neither  to  persuasion  nor  to  command. 
At  such  times  I  find  myself  obliged  to 
keep  my  mind  company,  and  I  have  no 
sense  of  responsibility  for  wasted  time. 

I  am  by  no  means  certain  that  such 
days  are  lost ;  I  am  rather  of  opinion 
that  they  are  days  of  special  fertility,  and 
that  the  mind  comes  back  from  its  wan 
derings  quickened  and  enriched  by  new 
contacts  with  life  and  truth.  While 
7  97 


My  Study  Fire 

Goldsmith  was  playing  his  flute  for 
rustic  dances  in  French  villages,  he  was 
storing  up  impressions  and  experiences 
that  were  to  add  a  flavour  to  all  his  later 
work.  But  this  reaction  of  the  mind 
against  routine,  or  against  work  of  any 
kind,  is  not  so  much  what  I  am  thinking 
about  now  as  that  kind  of  fruitful  dream 
ing  out  of  which  myths,  legends,  and 
imaginary  creations  of  all  sorts  spring, 
It  is  surprising  to  find  how  many  of  the 
greatest  works  of  literature  have  their 
roots  in  this  withdrawal  from  the  actual 
in  order  that  the  ideal  may  be  approached 
and  possessed.  Last  evening,  when  I 
noticed  the  faint  touch  of  scepticism  on 
Rosalind's  face,  I  was  quite  ready  to 
defend  myself;  in  fact,  that  charming 
woman  often  tells  me  that  I  defend  my 
self  when  no  attack  is  intended ;  and  this, 
I  have  no  doubt,  she  recognises  as  a 
slight  stirring  of  conscience  on  my  part, 
and  so  receives  fresh  confirmation  of  her 
suspicions.  I  long  ago  recognised  the 
fact  that,  as  all  roads  lead  to  Rome,  so 
98 


Dream  Worlds 

do  all  devices  end  in  disaster  when  the 
woman  who  knows  one  best  is  concerned. 
Peter  the  Great  finally  learned  the  secret 
of  victory  at  the  hands  of  the  foes  who 
so  long  defeated  him ;  but  in  the  peace 
ful  warfare  which  I  have  in  mind,  he  is 
the  wisest  man  who  learns  soonest  that 
defeat  is  inevitable,  and  that  resignation 
is  the  single  flower  that  blooms  on  these 
well-contested  fields.  There  are  times 
when  victory  seems  assured ;  one  is  armed 
at  all  points,  and  has  made  the  most 
careful  disposition  of  his  forces.  The 
enemy  seems  to  have  a  foreboding  of 
defeat;  there  is  a  lack  of  spirit  in  her 
resistance  ;  she  soon  yields  and  draws  one 
on,  careless  and  confident.  Suddenly  there 
is  a  portentous  change  ;  the  right  wing  is 
turned  and  flying,  the  left  wing  follows 
suit;  the  centre  is  seized  with  sudden 
panic,  and  gives  way  at  the  first  attack. 
The  reserve  is  brought  up,  and  promptly 
routed,  and  one  retires  at  last  from  the 
field,  not  sullen,  but  dazed,  confused,  and 
hopelessly  perplexed.  By  every  known 
99 


My  Study  Fire 

law  of  military  science  he  ought  to  have 
held  his  ground  and  routed  the  foe ;  his 
arguments  were  overpowering,  his  facts 
invincible ;  nevertheless  he  is  a  solitary 
fugitive.  Those  who  have  not  gone 
through  the  experience  will  doubt  this 
record  of  it;  those  who  have  passed 
through  its  varied  phases  will  instantly 
recognise  its  fidelity  to  nature,  and  will 
decline  to  confirm  it ;  there  is  a  conspir 
acy  of  silence  on  this  subject  among  those 
who  have  fallen  victims  to  rash  confidence 
in  their  powers.  It  must  be  added  that 
nothing  can  exceed  the  delicacy  of  be 
haviour  on  the  part  of  the  victor  on  such 
occasions.  It  is  only  by  a  little  increase 
of  colour,  an  irrepressible  light  in  the  eye, 
that  the  consciousness  of  success  is  be 
trayed.  Friendly  relations  are  immedi 
ately  resumed,  and  one  is  even  deluded 
into  the  conviction  that  his  defeat  was 
more  apparent  than  real,  and  that  in 
disaster  his  own  greatness  has  become 
more  evident,  and  been  instantly  rec- 
ognised.  This  is  a  delightful  feeling, 
100 


Dream  Worlds 

and  it  survives  as  long  as  it  remains 
unexpressed. 

This  is  a  long  digression,  but  an  open 
fire  sings  as  many  tunes  as  one  has 
moods,  and  I  make  no  apology  for 
rambling  from  my  subject.  At  that  very 
moment  Goethe's  "  Autobiography  "  lay 
open  in  Rosalind's  lap ;  I  gently  disen 
tangled  it  from  some  of  that  ornamental 
work  which  fringes  all  a  woman's  occu 
pations,  and  read  the  legend  of  the  poet's 
youth  which  he  calls  "  The  New  Paris." 
Goethe  learned  very  early  to  tell  stories 
acceptably ;  he  came  naturally  by  an  art 
in  which  his  mother  excelled,  of  whom 
he  says,  — 

Von  Miitterchen  die  Frohnatur 
Und  Lust  zu  fabuliren. 

His  playfellows  were  constantly  enter 
tained  by  the  recitals  of  his  marvellous 
adventures,  and  they  were  delighted  es 
pecially  with  his  report  of  a  certain  gar 
den  into  which  he  found  his  way  through 
a  gate  in  the  city  walls,  and  within  whose 

101 


My  Study  Fire 

magical  boundaries  all  manner  of  strange 
things  were  seen  by  the  adventurous  boy. 
This  was  told  so  often  and  with  such 
circumstantiality  that  it  was  accepted  as 
fact  not  only  by  the  listeners,  but  by  the 
narrator  himself.  Each  boy  privately 
visited  the  part  of  the  wall  where  the 
gate  was  supposed  to  be,  and  each  found 
confirmation  of  the  story.  There  were 
even  warm  discussions  as  to  the  exact 
position  of  certain  wholly  imaginary 
things  which  each  one  had  seen. 

Every  one  who  ha"s  the  privilege  of 
being  intrusted  with  the  confidences  of 
children  knows  that  the  imagination  has 
an  equal  power  with  reality  over  them. 
They  make  imaginary  or  dream  worlds, 
and  sustain  them  by  an  unbroken  faith 
until  the  light  of  knowledge  slowly  and 
sadly  disintegrates  them.  The  mind 
dreams,  and  creates  worlds  out  of  its 
dreams,  as  naturally  and  as  inevitably  as 
it  observes  and  learns  real  things. 

It  is  not  surprising  that  a  kinsman  of 
one  of  the  greatest  dreamers  of  modern 

IO2 


Dream  Worlds 

times  should  have  been  the  architect  of 
one  of  these  ideal  worlds.  Hartley 
Coleridge  believed  fully  that  some  day  a 
stream  would  break  out  of  the  soil  of  a 
neighbouring  meadow,  and  that  along  its 
swiftly  created  banks  a  new  race  would 
find  its  home  and  a  new  life  organise  it 
self.  This  was  no  vague  dream ;  it  was 
so  real,  so  definite,  and  so  continuous 
that  the  boy  knew  its  geography  as  well 
as  that  of  the  country  about  it,  and  even 
made  an  accurate  map  of  it.  This  secret 
possession  of  Hartley's  imagination  was 
shared  by  his  brother  Derwent,  and  for 
years  the  two  boys  watched  the  growth 
of  nations  on  this  invisible  continent,  the 
evolution  of  national  institutions,  reli 
gions,  and  laws ;  they  were  spectators  of 
battles  and  civic  conflicts  ;  they  knew  the 
private  histories  of  the  great  generals  and 
statesmen  who  arose  from  time  to  time ; 
and  in  the  long  course  of  years  they  saw 
radical  and  far-reaching  changes  of  gov 
ernment  and  society.  Everybody  re 
members  the  ideal  empire  of  Gombroon 
103 


My  Study  Fire 

which  De  Quincey  ruled  in  his  youth, 
and  the  government  of  which,  in  an  evil 
hour,  he  divided  with  his  elder  brother. 
The  latter  took  such  an  aggressive  atti 
tude  toward  the  people  of  Gombroon 
that  the  younger  ruler  was  obliged  to 
make  a  long  and  desperate  struggle  to 
preserve  their  independence.  Things  at 
length  came  to  such  a  pass  that,  in  order 
to  defeat  the  machinations  of  an  unscru 
pulous  enemy,  the  creator  of  the  invisible 
empire  had  to  face  the  question  of  de 
stroying  it.  "  Ah,  but  no  !  I  had  con 
tracted  obligations  to  Gombroon ;  I  had 
submitted  my  conscience  to  a  yoke,  and 
in  secret  truth  my  will  had  no  such  auto 
cratic  power.  Long  contemplation  of  a 
shadow,  earnest  study  for  the  welfare  of 
that  shadow,  sympathy  with  the  wounded 
sensibilities  of  that  shadow  under  accu 
mulated  wrongs  —  these  bitter  experi 
ences,  nursed  by  brooding  thought,  had 
gradually  frozen  that  shadow  into  a  rigour 
of  reality  far  denser  than  the  material 
realities  of  brass  or  granite." 
104 


Dream  Worlds 

Such  records  of  imaginative  childhood 
as  these  might  be  multiplied  indefinitely; 
they  register  not  so  much  isolated  activi 
ties  as  an  inevitable  and  normal  stage  of 
development.  It  is  a  theory  of  mine 
that  childhood  contains  in  the  germ  all 
that  maturity  ever  develops  or  displays, 
and  I  find  particular  illustration  of  this 
in  the  persistence  and  splendour  with 
which  this  faculty  of  ideal  creation  has 
worked  in  the  literature  of  the  world. 
For  instance  —  it  occurs  to  me  just  here 
that  I  have  wholly  failed  to  report  the 
discussion  between  Rosalind  and  myself 
which  arose  when  I  laid  down  the  poker 
and  settled  back  in  the  easy-chair.  I 
think  it  wisest,  upon  the  whole,  to  leave 
that  conversation  unrecorded,  but  I  hope 
no  one  will  connect  this  decision  on  my 
part  with  what  I  have  written  in  a  strictly 
general  way  about  such  discussions. 


105 


Chapter  XI 

A  Text  from  Sidney 

ROSALIND  has  given  me  a  text 
this  evening.  She  was  reading 
Sidney's  "  Defence  of  Poesy,"  and,  as  a 
contribution  to  a  talk  we  had  been  hav 
ing  on  poetry,  she  read  these  words 
aloud :  "  Since,  then,  poetry  is  of  all 
human  learnings  the  most  ancient  and 
of  most  fatherly  antiquity,  as  from 
whence  other  learnings  have  taken  their 
beginnings ;  since  it  is  so  universal  that 
no  learned  nation  doth  despise  it,  nor 
barbarous  nation  is  without  it;  since 
both  Roman  and  Greek  gave  such 
divine  names  unto  it,  the  one  of  proph 
esying,  the  other  of  making,  and  that 
indeed  that  name  of  making  is  fit  for  it, 
considering,  that  where  all  other  arts 
retain  themselves  within  their  subject, 
106 


A  Text  from  Sidney 

and  receive,  as  it  were,  their  being  from 
it,  the  poet  only,  only  bringeth  his  own 
stuff",  and  doth  not  learn  a  conceit  out 
of  a  matter,  but  maketh  matter  for  a 
conceit  ...  I  think,  and  think  I  think 
rightly,  the  laurel  crown  appointed  for 
triumphant  captains  doth  worthily,  of  all 
other  learnings,  honour  the  poet's  tri 
umph."  These  were  familiar  words, 
but  they  fitted  my  mood  so  perfectly 
that  I  seemed  to  be  hearing  them  for 
the  first  time.  I  had  spent  the  whole 
day  in  a  world  which  a  great  poet  had 
formed  out  of  the  stuff  of  his  imagina 
tion  ;  a  world  sublimely  ordered,  as  I 
looked  into  it,  by  the  harmony  of  the 
imagination  and  the  practical  reason; 
the  one  building  out  of  unsubstantial 
thought  and  touching  with  a  bewildering 
and  elusive  beauty,  the  other  moulding 
the  structure  to  human  needs  and  shap 
ing  it  to  human  ends.  The  day  made 
some  escape  from  its  sombre  realities 
almost  inevitable.  Since  early  morning 
the  rain  had  fallen  ceaselessly,  with  a 
107 


My  Study  Fire 

melancholy  monotone  that  beat  on  one's 
heart.  Even  the  cheerful  notes  of  the 
fire,  singing  lustily  as  if  to  exorcise  the 
demon  of  gloom  and  ennui,  failed  to  shut 
out  the  steady  murmur  of  the  water  fall 
ing  from  the  leaden  skies.  Against  such 
invasions  of  darkness  there  is  always 
a  refuge  in  the  imagination,  and  I  fled 
early  to  that  nameless  island  in  the 
undiscovered  sea  where  Shakespeare's 
"Tempest"  finds  its  sublime  stage. 
Under  the  spell  of  this  magical  vision  I 
had  forgotten  lowering  skies  and  leaden- 
footed  hours,  and  I  was  still  in  Shake 
speare's  world  when  Rosalind  read  the 
words  from  the  "Defence  of  Poesy" 
which  I  have  quoted. 

I  had  but  to  stretch  my  hand  to  a 
shelf  at  my  side  to  match  the  immortal 
young  Elizabethan  with  the  deeper  elo 
quence  of  the  Greek  thinker  whose  spec 
ulations  so  often  lead  into  the  fields  of 
poetry.  It  is  to  the  well-worn  words  of 
Socrates  to  Ion  that  I  open  and  read : 
"As  the  Corybantian  revellers,  when 
108 


A  Text  from  Sidney 

they  dance,  are  not  in  their  right  mind, 
so  the  lyric  poets  are  not  in  their  right 
mind  when  they  are  composing  their 
beautiful  strains:  but  when  falling  un 
der  the  power  of  music  and  metre  they 
are  inspired  and  possessed,  like  Bacchic 
maidens  who  draw  milk  and  honey  from 
the  rivers  when  they  are  under  the  influ 
ence  of  Dionysius,  but  not  when  they 
are  in  their  right  mind.  And  the  soul 
of  the  lyric  poet  does  the  same,  as  they 
themselves  tell  us ;  for  they  tell  us  that 
they  gather  their  strains  from  honeyed 
fountains  out  of  the  gardens  and  dells 
of  the  Muses ;  thither,  like  the  bees, 
they  wing  their  way.  And  this  is  true. 
For  the  poet  is  a  light  and  winged  and 
holy  thing,  and  there  is  no  invention  in 
him  until  he  has  been  inspired,  and  is 
out  of  his  senses,  and  the  mind  is  no 
longer  in  him.  .  .  .  For  in  this  way  the 
God  would  seem  to  indicate  to  us,  and 
not  allow  us  to  doubt  that  these  beau 
tiful  poems  are  not  human  or  the  work 
of  man,  but  divine  and  the  word  of 
109 


My  Study  Fire 

God;  and  that  the  poets  are  only  the 
interpreters  of  the  gods  by  whom  they 
are  severally  possessed." 

One  needs  nowadays  to  reinforce  his 
faith  in  the  ancient  supremacy  of  the 
imagination  by  some  such  words  as 
these  from  those  masters  of  the  higher 
reason  who  have  established  the  reality 
of  their  faith  by  the  sublimity  and  sub 
stance  of  their  works.  It  is  as  idle  to 
question  the  authority  of  the  imagination 
in  the  presence  of  Shakespeare's  "  Tem 
pest,"  or  Plato's  "Ion "or  "Phjedo," 
as  to  dispute  the  reality  of  music  while 
Beethoven's  "  Fifth  Symphony "  or 
Wagner's  "Tristan  and  Isolde"  hold 
us  silent  and  responsive  to  we  know 
not  what  unspoken  messages  from  some 
vaster  world.  It  is  not  a  matter  of 
demonstration,  of  evidence  or  proof  or 
logical  deduction ;  it  is  always  and  only 
a  flash  of  intelligence  through  the  spir 
itual  sense.  Well  says  Abt  Vogler  in 
Robert  Browning's  wonderful  exposition 
of  the  whole  matter : 


A  Text  from  Sidney 

Why  rushed   the   discords  on,  but  that  harmony 

should  be  prized  ? 

Sorrow  is  hard  to  bear,  and  doubt  is  slow  to  clear  ; 
Each  sufferer  says  his  say,  his  scheme  of  the  weal 

and  the  woe  ; 
But  God  has  a  few  of  us  whom  he  whispers  in  the 

ear ; 

The  rest    may  reason,  and    welcome;  'tis  we 
musicians  know. 

Literary  epochs  come  and  go,  forms 
of  expression  change,  but  the  method  of 
the  true  poet  remains  the  same ;  he  does 
not  reason  —  he  sees,  he  hears,  he  knows. 
The  reality  of  the  Ideal,  of  the  Spirit 
ual,  is  never  an  open  question  with  him ; 
when  it  becomes  one  he  ceases  to  be  a 
poet.  Scepticism  which  stimulates  sci 
ence  blights  poetry ;  the  doubt  which 
sends  the  mind  restlessly  abroad  de 
stroys  in  the  same  moment  the  home  in 
which  are  the  sources  of  its  joy  and  its 
inspiration.  Nothing  in  life  is  quite  so 
pathetic  as  the  artist  who  clings  to  his 
work  after  he  has  begun  to  question  its 
authority  and  validity.  The  toil  re 
mains,  but  the  unspeakable  joy  of  it  is 
in 


My  Study  Fire 

gone ;  and  so  also  is  that  chance  of  pos 
sible  perfection  for  the  winning  of  which 
genius  never  hesitates  to  stake  its  all.  It 

o 

were  better  that  the  painters  who  doubt 
whether  it  is  worth  while  to  paint,  and 
the  musicians  who  question  the  sincerity 
of  their  art,  and  the  poets  who  are  haunted 
with  the  fear  that  the  day  of  verse  has 
gone,  should  refrain  from  all  endeavour, 
and  that  the  world  should  wait  for  the 
hands  and  the  voices  that  must  bring 
back  the  Ideal  once  more  as  certainly  as 
the  birds  of  April  will  announce  the  sum 
mer,  coming  swiftly  northward  with  leaf 
for  tree,  and  flower  for  stalk,  and  green 
for  brown,  and  the  splendour  of  over 
flowing  light  for  days  that  are  brief  and 
shadowed.  It  is  easy  to  deny  the  exist 
ence  of  that  which  one  does  not  and  can 
not  see,  and  this  must  be  the  cloak  of 
charity  which  one  casts  over  those  who 
write  the  epitaph  of  the  Imagination  and 
record  with  funereal  reiteration  the  decline 
and  disappearance  of  poetry.  They  do 
not  write  poetry :  therefore  poetry  has 


112 


A  Text  from  Sidney 

ceased  to  be.  Its  sublime  course  runs 
out  in  a  thin  ripple  of  musical  verse 
which  only  makes  the  glitter  of  the  bare 
sand  beneath  the  more  obtrusive.  There 
is  a  sure  refuge  from  all  these  faint  and 
querulous  voices  which  make  the  silence 
of  the  great  woods,  once  overflowing 
with  affluent  melodies,  the  more  ap 
parent.  These  light-voiced  singers  sing 
their  little  songs,  not  for  the  wide  skies 
and  the  great  stars  and  the  silent  day 
perfumed  with  hidden  flowers,  but  for 
the  ears  of  men.  One  has  but  to  leave 
the  outer  edges  of  the  woodland  to  for 
get  these  feeble  cries ;  one  has  but  to  seek 
the  heart  of  the  ancient  forest  to  hear  once 
more  those  magical  notes  which  seem  to 
rise  out  of  the  hidden  world  about  him 
and  to  carry  from  its  heart  some  secret  to 
his  own.  The  voices  are  still  there ;  and, 
better  than  all,  the  sublime  mysteries 
which  charge  those  voices  with  thrilling 
music  are  there  also. 

Nature  is  still  what  she  has  been  to 
all  the  great  poets  from   ^Eschylus    to 
8  113 


My  Study  Fire 

Emerson,  although  the  critics  announce 
the  final  disappearance  of  the  "  pathetic 
fallacy "  which  underlies  Wordsworth's 
verse.  Poor  critics !  their  offence  lies 
not  in  their  failure  to  see,  but  in  their 
denial  that  Wordsworth  saw.  Their 
own  defect  of  vision  makes  them  cer 
tain  that  there  is  no  true  sight  among 
men.  But  those  who  see  are  not  con 
cerned  with  such  denials ;  for  them  the 
sky  is  blue,  though  an  army  of  blind 
men  swear  it  black ;  and  to  those  who 
hear,  life  is  still  thrilled  with  mysterious 
voices  though  the  deaf  proclaim  an  eter 
nal  silence.  Among  so  many  doubters 
and  sceptics  it  is  pleasant  to  hear  still 
the  unbroken  testimony  of  the  older 
poets  to  the  truths  that  were  clear  to 
them  when  life  and  youth  were  one.  In 
his  latest  verse  Browning  strikes  the  old 
chords  with  a  virile  touch  which  evokes 
no  uncertain  sound.  He  pictures  the 
Fates  couched  dragon-wise  in  the  heart 
of  night,  casting  over  the  upper  world  a 
darkness  as  impenetrable  as  that  in  which 
114 


A  Text  from  Sidney 

they  measure  and  cut  the  threads  of  ex 
istence,  and  summing  up  life  in  words 
that  seem,  save  for  their  vigour,  borrowed 
from  some  of  our  minor  singers  : 

What's  infancy  ?     Ignorance,  idleness,  mischief: 
Youth  ripens  to  arrogance,  foolishness,  greed : 
Age  —  impotence,  churlishness,  rancour. 

Into  this  chamber  of  blackness  descends 
Apollo,  and  straightway  a  supernal  light 
breaks  on  the  three  terrible  sisters, 
which  they  cannot  dim  by  a  torrent  of 
fateful  words.  The  shining  God  thrusts 
heaven  upon  them  : 

Regard  how  your  cavern  from  crag-tip  to  base 
Frowns  sheer,   height   and  depth   adamantine, 

one  death  ! 

I  rouse  with  a  beam  the  whole  rampart,  displace 
No    splinter  —  yet    see    how   my    flambeau, 

beneath 

And  above,  bids  this  gem  wink,  that  crystal  un 
sheathe. 

This  is  the  divine  office  of  that  Ima 
gination  of  which  Apollo  will  always  re 
main  the  noblest  symbol   and  the   most 
"5 


My  Study  Fire 

significant  creation.  The  fancy,  delicate 
it  may  be  as  the  flush  on  a  rose  or  the 
sculptured  line  on  a  Grecian  urn,  can 
never  take  the  place  of  that  highest 
reason  by  which  alone  the  ultimate  truths 
are  reached  and  the  secrets  of  life  re 
vealed.  The  "  idle  singer  of  an  empty 
day,"  the  doubting,  hesitant  singer,  un 
certain  of  his  song,  can  never  touch  the 
heart  of  humanity,  nor  make  it  one  with 
the  world  about  it.  The  true  poet  is 
still  the  interpreter  of  the  gods.  "  Thou 
true  land-lord !  sea-lord !  air-lord ! 
Wherever  snow  falls  or  water  flows  or 
birds  fly,  wherever  day  and  night  meet 
in  twilight,  wherever  the  blue  heaven 
is  hung  by  clouds  or  sown  with  stars, 
wherever  are  forms  with  transparent 
boundaries,  wherever  are  outlets  into 
celestial  space,  wherever  is  danger,  and 
awe,  and  love  —  there  is  Beauty,  plente 
ous  as  rain,  shed  for  thee,  and  though 
thou  shouldst  walk  the  world  over,  thou 
shalt  not  be  able  to  find  a  condition 
inopportune  or  ignoble." 
116 


Chapter  XII 

The  Artist  Talks 

LAST  night  we  sat  late  over  the  fire. 
It  had  been  a  blustering  day,  but 
at  sunset  the  wind  fell  and  the  stars 
came  out  in  splendid  brilliancy.  Rosa 
lind  had  taken  up  her  work,  and  we 
were  anticipating  a  long,  quiet  evening, 
when  the  door  opened  and  our  friend 
the  artist  walked  abruptly  in.  Without 
ceremony,  he  dropped  his  hat  and  coat 
on  a  chair,  and  almost  before  we  realised 
that  he  was  in  the  house  he  was  standing 
before  the  fire  warming  his  hands  and 
saying  that  it  was  an  uncommonly  sharp 
night.  No  more  welcome  guest  ever 
comes  under  our  roof  than  the  artist. 
Slender,  alert,  restless,  speaking  always 
the  thought  that  is  uppermost  in  his 
mind  without  reference  to  persons  or 
places,  I  do  not  know  a  more  genuine, 
117 


My  Study  Fire  . 

keen-sighted,  and  aspiring  human  soul. 
I  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  almost 
with  curiosity ;  so  rare  is  the  sight  of  a 
man  working  out  his  life  with  eager  joy 
and  in  entire  unconsciousness  of  himself. 
His  fellow-craftsmen  are  all  talking  about 
his  extraordinary  work,  and  the  world  is 
fast  finding  him  out;  but  he  remains 
as  simple-hearted  as  a  child.  It  is  this 
quality  quite  as  much  as  the  genius  for 
expression  which  I  find  in  him  which 
assures  me  that  he  has  the  elements  of 
greatness.  When  he  begins  to  talk,  we 
are  always  glad  to  remain  silent;  such 
speech  as  his  is  rare.  A  fresher,  clearer, 
more  original  talker  never  comes  into 
the  Study ;  his  thought  flashes  to  the 
very  heart  of  the  theme,  and  we  see  it 
instantly  in  some  fresh  and  striking  as 
pect  or  relation.  He  is  so  far  removed 
from  the  atmosphere  of  the  materialistic 
spirit  that  he  is  as  untouched  and  un 
tainted  by  it  as  if  it  did  not  exist.  Life 
grows  rich  under  his  speech  ;  becomes 
splendid  with  interior  truth  and  beauty ; 
118 


The  Artist  Talks 

becomes  marvellously  suggestive  and  in 
spiring.  The  commercial  standpoint  and 
standards  do  not  enter  into  his  concep 
tion  of  life  and  the  world ;  the  conven 
tional  estimates  and  judgments  do  not 
lay  a  feather's  weight  on  his  alert,  aspir 
ing  spirit.  The  other  day  I  met  him 
coming  away  from  a  rehearsal  at  which 
a  famous  pianist  had  so  thrilled  a  great 
audience  that  the  applause  more  than 
once  broke  in  on  the  music.  "That 
man  is  an  artist,"  said  my  friend ;  "  did 
you  notice  how  the  crowd  irritated  him  ? 
He  hated  us  because  we  made  him  con 
scious  of  our  presence." 

It  happened  that  yesterday  Rosalind 
and  I  had  been  looking  at  an  etching  of 
Meryon's,  and  we  had  naturally  fallen  to 
talking  about  the  pathos  of  his  life ;  a 
man  of  exquisite  genius,  every  touch  of 
whose  hand  is  now  precious,  but  who 
lived  without  recognition  and  died  with 
out  hope.  And  as  I  had  seen  recently 
some  account  of  the  enormous  aggregate 
value  of  Corot's  works,  I  recalled  also 
"9 


My  Study  Fire 

the  long  years  of  indifference  and  neglect 
through  which  the  great  artist  waited  and 
worked  before  fame  entered  his  atelier. 
When  we  were  comfortably  disposed  be 
fore  the  fire,  and  the  talk,  breaking  free 
from  personal  incident,  began  to  flow  in 
its  accustomed  channels,  both  Meryon 
and  Corot  were  mentioned  by  Rosalind 
as  illustrations  of  the  struggle  with  the 
world  to  which  some  of  the  greatest  souls 
are  subjected;  and  she  added  that  it  was 
hard  to  reconcile  one's  self  to  the  swift 
success  which  often  comes  to  lesser  men 
while  their  superiors  are  fighting  the 
battle  with  want  and  neglect. 

"  Don't  bother  about  that,"  said  our 
friend,  starting  out  of  his  chair  and 
standing  before  the  fire.  "  There  is 
nothing  that  a  real  artist  cares  less  for 
than  what  you  call  success.  It  is  gen 
erally  a  misfortune  if  he  gets  it  early, 
and  if  it  comes  to  him  late  he  is  indif 
ferent  to  it.  It  is  a  misfortune  when 
a  man  really  wants  bread  and  butter  and 
can't  get  them ;  when  a  man  is  so  strait- 

I2O 


The  Artist  Talks 

ened  that  he  cannot  work  in  peace ;  but 
that  does  not  often  happen.  Most  men 
earn  enough  to  fill  their  mouths  and 
cover  their  backs ;  if  they  earn  more,  it 
generally  means  that  they  are  throwing 
away  their  chances  ;  that  the  devil  of 
popularity  has  got  their  ear  and  is  bury 
ing  them  piecemeal.  Neglect  and  in 
difference  are  things  which  a  man  ought 
to  pray  for,  not  things  to  be  shunned 
while  one  lives  and  lamented  after  one  is 
dead.  Neglect  and  indifference  mean 
freedom  from  temptation,  long,  quiet 
days  in  one's  studio,  hard  work,  sound 
sleep,  and  healthy  growth.  It  was  a 
great  piece  of  luck  for  Corot  that  the 
world  was  so  long  in  finding  him ;  that 
it  left  him  so  many  years  in  peace  to  do 
his  work  and  let  his  soul  out.  His  con 
tempt  for  popularity  was  well  expressed 
in  the  phrase,  *  Men  are  like  flies ;  if 
one  alights  on  a  dish,  others  will  follow.' 
No  happier  man  ever  lived  than  Corot 
during  those  years  when  there  was  noth 
ing  to  do  but  sit  in  the  fields,  pipe  in 

121 


My  Study  Fire 

mouth,  and  watch  the  morning  sky,  and 
then  go  and  paint  it.  As  for  Meryon, 
his  case  was  a  hard  one ;  but  there  was 
madness  in  his  blood,  and,  after  all,  he 
had  the  supreme  satisfaction  of  saying 
his  say.  He  put  himself  on  his  plates, 
and  that  was  enough  for  any  man. 

tf  People  are  so  stupid  about  this  mat 
ter  of  success,"  he  continued,  walking  up 
and  down  the  room.  "  They  seem  to 
think  a  man  is  miserable  unless  they 
crowd  his  studio.  For  my  part,  I  don't 
want  them  there.  Don't  you  under 
stand  that  all  an  artist  asks  is  a  chance 
to  work  ?  What  we  want  is  not  success, 
but  the  chance  to  get  ourselves  on  to 
canvas.  I  paint  because  I  can't  help  it ; 
I  am  tortured  with  thirst  for  expression. 
Give  me  expression,  and  I  am  happy  ; 
deny  it,  and  I  am  miserable."  Here  a 
copy  of  Keats  caught  his  eye.  "  It  is 
the  same  with  all  of  us  ;  there  was  never 
a  greater  mistake  than  the  idea  that 
Keats  was  unhappy  because  critics  fell 
foul  of  him  and  the  people  did  n't  read 


The  Artist  Talks 

him.  It  is  natural  to  wish  that  people 
would  see  things  as  we  see  them,  but 
the  chief  thing  is  that  we  see  them  our 
selves.  Keats  did  n't  write  for  the 
crowd ;  he  wrote  for  himself.  There 
was  a  pain  in  his  soul  that  could  only 
be  eased  by  writing.  When  a  man 
writes  an  f  Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn,'  he 
does  n't  need  to  be  told  that  he  is  suc 
cessful.  They  talk  about  Shakespeare's 
indifference  to  fame  as  if  it  were  the  sign 
of  a  small  nature  which  could  not  recog 
nise  its  own  greatness.  Can't  they  see 
that  Shakespeare  wrote  to  free  his  own 
mind  and  heart?  that  before  he  wrote 
either  play  he  had  conquered  in  himself 
the  weakness  of  Hamlet  on  the  one  hand, 
and  the  weakness  of  Romeo  on  the 
other?  Never  was  a  man  more  for 
tunate  than  Shakespeare,  for  he  wrote 
himself  entirely  out ;  he  completely  ex 
pressed  himself.  I  can  imagine  him 
turning  his  back  on  London  and  settling 
down  to  his  small  concerns  at  Stratford 
with  supreme  content.  What  can  the 
123 


My  Study  Fire 

world  give  to  or  take  from  the  man  who 
has  lived  his  life  and  put  the  whole  of 
it  into  art?  I  understand  that  every 
body  is  reading  Browning  nowadays ;  I 
am  surprised  they  waited  so  long.  I 
discovered  him  long  ago,  and  have  fed 
on  him  ever  since,  because  I  felt  the 
eager  longing  for  life  and  the  quenchless 
thirst  for  expression  'in  him.  No  Eng 
lish  poet  has  said  such  true  things  about 
art,  because  no  one  else  has  understood  so 
thoroughly  an  artist's  hunger  and  thirst, 
and  the  things  that  give  him  peace." 
Just  at  this  point,  when  I  was  getting 
into  a  talking  mood  myself,  our  friend 
stopped  suddenly,  declared  that  he  had 
forgotten  an  engagement,  seized  his  hat 
and  coat,  and  made  off  after  his  custom 
ary  abrupt  fashion. 


124 


Chapter  XIII 

Escaping  from  Bondage 

I  HAVE  often  pictured  to  myself  the 
scene  in  the  old  Tower  when 
Raleigh  broke  the  spell  of  prison  life  by 
writing  the  history  of  the  world.  The 
restless  prisoner,  a  born  leader  and  man 
of  affairs,  whose  ambitious  projects  were 
spread  over  two  continents,  was  suddenly 
secluded  from  the  life  of  his  time  at  the 
hour  when  that  life  had  for  every  daring 
spirit  an  irresistible  attraction.  On  the 
instant  this  audacious  courtier  of  fortune, 
ready  to  take  advantage  of  any  wind  and 
strike  for  any  prize,  was  locked  and 
bolted  in  the  solitude  of  a  cell !  Such  a 
man  must  find  vent  for  his  arrested  ener 
gies,  or  prey  upon  himself.  If  Raleigh 
could  not  go  to  the  world,  the  world 
must  come  to  him  !  And  it  came,  not 
to  scorn  and  triumph  over  him,  but  to 
I2S 


My  Study  Fire 

submit  to  the  calm  scrutiny  of  his  active 
mind.  There  have  been  more  striking 
examples  of  the  victory  of  a  soul  over  its 
surroundings ;  Epictetus  made  himself 
free  though  a  slave,  and  Marcus  Aure- 
lius  learned  how  to  serve  though  an 
emperor;  but  there  has  been  no  more 
dramatic  illustration  of  the  victorious 
assertion  of  personality. 

The  limitations  of  most  lives  are  by 
no  means  so  tangible  as  the  walls  within 
which  Raleigh  was  confined,  but  there 
is  a  certain  amount  of  restriction  laid  on 
us  all.  We  are  all  prisoners  in  some 
sense ;  the  great  man  who,  of  all  others, 
demonstrated  most  sublimely  the  superi 
ority  of  the  soul  over  all  external  con 
ditions,  described  himself  as  "  a  prisoner 
of  hope."  There  are  fixed  limits  to  the 
activity  of  even  the  freest  life ;  and  for 
many,  a  narrow  field  is  set  both  for 
happiness  and  for  work.  There  is  one 
place,  however,  where  no  boundaries  are 
fixed,  no  doors  closed,  no  bolts  shot : 
among  his  books  a  man  laughs  at  his 
126 


Escaping  from  Bondage 

bonds  and  finds  an  open  road  out  of 
every  form  of  imprisonment.  Last  night 
Rosalind  read  to  me,  from  Silvio  Pelli- 
co's  Memoirs,  pictures  of  his  prison  life. 
His  very  bondage  had  furnished  mate 
rial  for  his  pen  ;  out  of  the  barrenness 
of  his  prisons  he  had  gathered  a  harvest 
of  experience  and  thought.  There  is  no 
kind  of  bondage  which  life  lays  upon  us 
that  may  not  yield  both  sweetness  and 
strength,  and  nothing  reveals  a  man's 
character  more  fully  than  the  spirit  in 
which  he  bears  his  limitations. 

It  is  an  easy  matter  for  the  man  of 
many  burdens  and  of  sharp  restrictions 
of  duty  and  opportunity  to  become  en 
vious,  to  rail  at  fate,  and  to  decry  the  for 
tune  and  work  of  those  who  are  better 
circumstanced.  It  is  very  easy  for  such 
a  man  to  shut  his  mind  and  heart  within 
the  same  walls  which  confine  his  body, 
and  to  become  narrow,  hard,  and  unsym 
pathetic.  There  are  hosts  of  men  who 
impose  their  own  limitations  on  the  world 
and  set  up  their  own  narrowness  as  the 
127 


My  Study  Fire 

-standard  of  virtue ;  who  identify  their 
own  small  conceptions  of  time  and  eter 
nity  with  a  divine  revelation  of  truth  and 
pronounce  all  who  differ  from  them  an 
athema.  There  are  few  spectacles  more 
common  or  more  pitiful  than  these 
strange  illusions  by  which  men  mistake 
their  littleness  for  greatness  and  the  nar 
row  boundaries  of  their  own  thoughts 
and  feelings  for  the  outermost  bounds 
and  sheer  edge  of  the  universe.  To 
be  in  prison  and  not  to  be  conscious 
of  the  bondage  is  surely  a  tragic  com 
ment  on  one's  ideal  of  freedom. 

We  are  all  shut  up  within  intangible 
walls  of  ignorance,  prejudice,  half-knowl 
edge  ;  and  the  difference  between  men  is 
not  the  difference  between  those  who  are 
in  bonds  and  those  who  are  free,  but  be 
tween  those  who  feel  their  bondage  and 
are  striving  for  freedom,  and  those  who, 
being  bound,  think  themselves  loose. 
The  long  story  of  the  struggles  and 
agonies  and  achievements  of  men  is 
the  story  of  the  unbroken  effort  for 
128 


Escaping  from  Bondage 

freedom  ;  it  is  the  record  of  countless 
attempts  to  break  jail  and  live  under 
God's  clear  heavens.  Hegel  declared 
that  the  great  fact  of  history  is  the 
struggle  for  freedom,  and  Matthew  Ar 
nold  reaffirmed  the  same  thing  when  he 
said  again  and  again  that  the  instinct  for 
expansion  is  at  the  bottom  of  the  move 
ment  of  civilisation.  It  is  this  heroic 
endeavour,  often  futile,  often  defeated, 
but  never  abandoned,  which  gives  history 
its  dignity  and  its  thrilling  interest. 

Of  the  spiritual  and  intellectual  strug 
gles  toward  light  and  freedom  literature 
gives  the  fullest  and  most  authentic  ac 
count.  Great  writers  have  always  been 
in  advance  of  their  time,  and  the  impulse 
toward  expression  has  come  largely  from 
the  inspiration  of  escape  from  some  bond 
age  in  which  other  men  are  held.  From 
Socrates  to  Browning,  the  thinkers  and 
poets  have  all  been  emancipators.  In 
the  end  this  bringing  of  new  light  into 
the  mind  of  the  world  will  be  counted 
their  chief  service.  "  When  I  am  dead," 

9  129 


My  Study  Fire 

said  one  of  the  keenest  of  modern  minds, 
one  of  the  greatest  of  modern  poets,  "  lay 
a  sword  on  my  coffin,  for  I  was  a  soldier 
in  the  war  for  the  liberation  of  human 
ity."  Like  service  has  been  rendered 
by  almost  all  the  great  writers.  They 
have  seen  beyond  their  time ;  they  have 
parted  company  with  some  usage,  some 
tradition  out  of  which  the  life  had  ebbed  ; 
they  have  broken  away  from  some  de 
caying  creed;  they  have  put  some  new 
knowledge  in  the  place  of  some  old  igno 
rance.  The  steady  movement  of  great 
literature  is  toward  the  light ;  and  there 
are  few  instrumentalities  so  potent  to 
destroy  provincialism,  to  dissipate  pop 
ular  misconceptions,  and  to  substitute 
for  parochial  standards  and  ideas  the 
larger  thought  of  the  larger  world  of 
open-minded  men.  Literature  is  the 
hereditary  enemy  of  half-truths,  of  false 
perspectives  in  looking  at  life,  of  partial 
estimates  in  dealing  with  men.  No  man 
can  open  his  mind  to  the  spirit  and  teach 
ing  of  the  greatest  minds  without  suffer- 
130 


Escaping  from  Bondage 

ing  an  enlargement  of  vision.  A  man 
can  remain  small  in  a  library  only  by 
refusing  the  noble  fellowship  which  lies 
within  his  reach;  he  cannot  have  com 
panionship  with  inspiring  persons  and 
escape  some  share  in  their  nobler  vision 
of  life. 


Chapter  XIV 

Some  Old  Scholars 

THE  study  door  is  rarely  closed. 
For  the  most  part,  it  stands  open 
to  those  vague  and  wandering  sounds 
which  rather  serve  to  convey  a  sense  of 
companionship  than  to  interrupt  thought 
and  dissipate  interest.  The  deepest 
studies  sometimes  miss  their  best  results 
because  they  are  too  solitary.  The 
scholar  must  keep  out  of  the  bustle  of 
active  life ;  but  if  he  cross  the  line  of 
sympathy,  if  he  lose  touch  with  his  day 
and  his  fellows,  there  is  an  end  of  his 
usefulness.  Nothing  interprets  a  great 
book  or  a  great  picture  like  human  life ; 
it  is  the  only  commentary  on  the  growth 
of  art  which  is  worth  studying,  for  in  it 
alone  are  to  be  found  the  secrets  and  the 
meaning  of  art.  The  scholar  must  always 
be  in  the  best  sense  a  man  of  the  world : 
132 


one  by  whom  the  faces  and  souls  of  men 
are  daily  read  with  the  insight  of  sym 
pathy  ;  one  to  whom  the  great  movement 
of  humanity  is  the  supreme  fact  to  be 
felt,  to  be  studied,  to  be  interpreted.  It 
is  this  vital  relation  to  his  own  age  which 
distinguishes  the  scholar  from  the  pedant 
—  the  man  to  whom  the  heart  of  knowl 
edge  reveals  itself  from  the  man  whose 
fellowship  with  the  past  is  always  only 
"  dust  to  dust,  ashes  to  ashes." 

It  was  just  this  vitality,  this  living 
relation  to  living  things,  which  separated 
the  first  great  modern  scholar  from  the 
generations  of  forgotten  Dry-as-Dusts 
who  preceded  him.  Petrarch  really  es 
caped  from  a  sepulchre  when  he  stepped 
out  of  the  cloister  of  mediaevalism,  with 
its  crucifix,  its  pictures  of  unhealthy 
saints,  its  cords  of  self-flagellation,  and 
found  the  heavens  clear,  beautiful,  and 
well  worth  living  under,  and  the  world 
full  of  good  things  which  one  might 
desire  and  yet  not  be  given  over  to 
evil.  He  ventured  to  look  at  life  for 
133 


My  Study  Fire 

himself,  and  he  found  it  full  of  wonder 
ful  power  and  dignity.  He  opened  his 
Virgil,  brushed  aside  the  cobwebs  which 
monkish  brains  had  spun  over  the  beau 
tiful  lines,  and  met  the  old  poet  as  one 
man  meets  another ;  and,  lo !  there  rose 
before  him  a  new,  untrodden,  and  wholly 
human  world,  free  from  priestcraft  and 
pedantry,  near  to  nature,  and  unspeak 
ably  alluring  and  satisfying.  Digging 
down  through  a  vast  overgrowth  of  su 
perstition  and  pedantry,  Petrarch  found 
the  real  soil  of  life  once  more,  and  found 
that  antiquity  had  its  roots  there  quite 
as  much  as  medievalism ;  that  the  Greeks 
and  Romans  were  flesh  and  blood  quite 
as  truly  as  the  image-worshipping  Italians. 
Then  came  the  inevitable  thought  that 
these  men  were  not  outcasts  from  the 
grace  and  care  of  heaven,  "dead  and 
damned  heathen,"  whose  civilisation  had 
been  a  mere  worthless  husk  to  protect 
the  later  Christian  society,  but  that  .they 
belonged  in  the  divinely  appointed  order 
of  history,  had  lived  their  lives  and  done 


Some  Old  Scholars 

their  work  and  gone  to  their  rest  as  the 
later  generations  were  doing.  The  mo 
ment  Petrarch  understood  these  very 
simple  but  then  very  radical  truths  his 
whole  attitude  toward  the  past  was 
changed ;  it  was  no  longer  a  forbidden 
country,  but  a  fresh,  untrodden  world, 
rich  in  all  manner  of  noble  activities  and 
experiences,  full  of  character,  significance, 
divinity.  There  is  no  need  to  recall  the 
mighty  stirrings  of  soul  that  followed ; 
in  Humanism  the  mind  had  come  into 
fresh  contact  with  life  and  received  a 
new  and  overmastering  impulse.  The 
new  learning  ran  like  fire  over  Italy; 
old  men  forsook  their  vices  for  the 
charms  of  scholarship,  young  men  ex 
changed  their  pleasures  for  the  garb  and 
habits  of  the  student ;  the  air  was  charged 
with  the  electricity  of  new  thought,  and 
all  minds  turned  to  the  future  with  a 
prophetic  sense  of  the  great  new  age  on 
whose  threshold  they  stood. 

It  was   inevitable   that  in  the   course 
of  time  Humanism  itself  should  become 


My  Study  Fire 

pedantic  and  formal,  should  lose  its  hold 
upon  the  turbulent  and  restless  life  about 
it,  and  should  finally  give  place  to  a  later 
and  still  more  vital  scholarship.  Noth 
ing  pauses  in  the  sublime  evolution  of 
history;  there  is  no  place  of  rest  in 
that  pilgrimage  which  is  an  eternal  truth 
seeking.  It  would  be  interesting  to 
trace  the  inner  history  of  the  learning 
which  Petrarch  and  Boccaccio  and  the 
men  of  the  great  Italian  Revival  carried 
through  Europe,  and  to  meet  here  and 
there  some  large-minded,  noble-hearted 
scholar,  standing  book  in  hand,  but 
always  with  the  windows  of  his  chamber 
open  to  the  fields  and  woods,  always 
with  the  doors  of  his  life  open  to  human 
need  and  fellowship.  For  true  scholar 
ship  never  dies  ;  the  fire  sometimes  passes 
from  one  to  another  in  the  hollow  of  a 
reed,  as  in  the  earliest  time,  but  it  never 
goes  out.  I  confess  that  I  can  never 
read  quite  unmoved  the  story  of  the 
Brethren  of  the  Common  Life,  those 
humble-minded,  patient  teachers  and 
136 


Some  Old  Scholars 

thinkers  whose  devotion  and  fire  of  soul 
for  a  century  and  a  half  made  the  choice 
treasures  of  Italian  palaces  and  convents 
and  universities  a  common  possession 
along  the  low-lying  shores  of  the  Nether 
lands.  The  asceticism  of  this  noble 
brotherhood  was  no  morbid  and  divisive 
fanaticism ;  it  was  a  denial  of  themselves 
that  they  might  have  the  more  to  give. 
The  visions  which  touched  at  times  the 
bare  walls  of  their  cells  with  supernal 
beauty  only  made  them  the  more  eager 
to  share  their  heaven  of  privilege  with  the 
sorely  burdened  world  without.  Surely 
Virgil  and  Horace  and  the  other  masters 
of  classic  form  were  never  more  honoured 
than  when  these  noble-minded  lovers  of 
learning  and  of  their  kind  made  their 
sounding  lines  familiar  in  peasant  homes. 
Among  the  great  folios  of  the  fifteenth 
century,  the  very  titles  of  which  the 
modern  scholar  no  longer  burdens  his 
memory  with,  there  is  one  little  volume 
which  the  world  has  known  by  heart 
these  four  hundred  years  and  more.  Its 


My  Study  Fire 

bulk  is  so  small  that  one  may  carry  it  in 
his  pocket,  but  its  depth  of  feeling  is  so 
great  that  one  never  gets  quite  to  the 
bottom  of  it,  and  its  outlook  is  so  sub 
lime  that  one  never  sees  quite  to  the  end 
of  it.  The  great  folios  are  monuments 
of  patience  and  imperfect  information ; 
this  little  volume  is  instinct  with  human 
life;  a  soul  speaks  to  souls  in  it.  It 
was  by  no  caprice  of  nature  that  the 
"  De  Imitatione  Christi "  was  written  by 
a  member  of  the  Brotherhood  of  the 
Common  Life.  And  when  the  great 
hour  of  deliverance  from  priestcraft  for 
Germany  and  Northern  Europe  came, 
it  was  no  accident  that  made  another 
member  of  the  same  order  the  fellow- 
worker  with  Luther  for  liberty  of 
thought.  Erasmus  was  no  reformer, 
but  he  was  a  true  scholar,  and  in  the 
splendour  of  his  great  attainments  and 
the  importance  of  his  great  service  the 
obscure  virtues  of  the  Brotherhood  of 
the  Common  Life  receive  a  final  and 
perpetual  illumination. 
138 


Some  Old  Scholars 

In  Kaulbach's  striking  cartoon  of  the 
Reformation  there  is  one  figure  which 
no  one  overlooks,  although  Shakespeare 
and  Michael  Angelo  stand  in  full  view. 
Among  the  masters  of  art  and  literature 
the  cobbler,  with  his  leather  apron,  finds 
a  place  by  right  of  possession  which  no 
one  of  his  compeers  would  dispute.  The 
six  thousand  compositions  of  Hans  Sachs 
are  for  the  most  part  forgotten,  with  the 
innumerable  poems  of  the  Minnesingers 
and  Meistersingers,  but  there  remain  a 
few  verses  which  the  world  will  not  care 
to  forget.  In  spite  of  the  roughness  of 
his  verse,  its  unmelodious  movement,  its 
lack  of  musical  cadence  and  accent,  the 
cobbler  of  Nurnberg  lived  in  the  life  of 
his  time ;  he  had  eyes  that  looked  upon 
the  skies  and  fields,  and  a  heart  that  was 
one  with  the  hearts  of  his  people.  It 
was  this  vital  perception  that  saved  him 
from  slavery  to  the  mechanism  of  verse 
and  made  him  a  poet  in  spite  of  his  time 
and  himself.  A  genuine  scholar,  and  yet 
a  man  of  the  people,  Hans  Sachs  lifts 
139 


My  Study  Fire 

himself  out  of  the  mechanical  pedantry 
of  his  age  by  the  freshness  of  his  contact 
with  life.  He  might  truly  have  said  of 
himself,  as  he  has  said  of  another : 

But  he  —  I  say  with  sorrow  — 
Is  a  wretched  singer  thorough, 
Who  all  his  songs  must  borrow 
From  what  was  sung  before. 

No  man  can  live  in  a  "  Palace  of  Art " 
without  danger  of  missing,  not  only  his 
own  highest  development,  but  that  heri 
tage  of  truth  which  is  always  a  common 
and  never  a  personal  possession.  The 
poet  who  separates  himself  from  his  fel 
lows  reproduces  himself  by  a  law  which 
holds  him  powerless  in  its  grasp ;  the 
poet  who  lives  richly  and  deeply  with  his 
kind  learns  the  secrets  of  all  hearts,  and, 
like  Shakespeare,  sees  the  endless  pro 
cession  of  humanity  passing  as  he  looks 
into  his  own  soul.  The  scholar  masters 
the  letter  and  misses  the  spirit  as  he  sits 
in  unbroken  seclusion  among  his  books ; 
the  light  of  common  love  and  joy  and 
140 


Some  Old  Scholars 

sorrow  which  alone  penetrates  knowl 
edge  to  its  heart  and  suffuses  bare  state 
ment  with  the  soul  of  truth  fades  from 
the  page  utterly.  And  so  the  study  door 
stands  open,  and  intermingling  with  the 
great  thoughts  of  the  past  there  comes 
the  sound  of  voices  that  break  the  soli 
tude  of  life  with  hope  and  faith  and  love, 
and  the  rush  of  little  feet  that  trans 
form  it  with  that  thought  of  eternal 
youth  which  is  only  another  word  for 
immortality. 


141 


Chapter  XV 

Dull  Days 

IT  is  a  day  of  mist  and  rain ;  a  day 
without  light  or  colour.  The  leaden 
sky  rests  heavily,  almost  oppressively, 
on  the  earth  ;  the  monotonous  dropping 
of  the  rain  sets  the  gray  dreariness  of  the 
day  to  a  slow,  unvarying  rhythm.  On 
such  a  day  nature  seems  wrapped  in  an 
inaccessible  mood,  and  one  gets  no  help 
from  her.  On  such  a  day  it  not  unfre- 
quently  happens  that  one's  spirits  take  on 
the  colour  of  the  world,  and  not  a  flower 
blooms,  not  a  bird  sings,  in  the  garden 
of  the  imagination.  If  one  yields  to  the 
mood,  he  puts  on  the  hair  shirt  of  the 
penitent,  and  spends  the  long  hours  in 
recalling  his  sins  and  calculating  the  sum 
total  of  his  mistakes.  If  one  is  candid 
and  sensitive,  the  hours  as  they  pass 
142 


Dull  Days 

steadily  add  to  the  balance  on  the  debit 
side  of  the  account,  and  long  ere  the 
night  comes  bankruptcy  has  been  reached 
and  accepted  as  a  just  award  of  an  ill- 
spent  life.  Everybody  who  has  any 
imagination,  and  suffers  lapses  from  a 
good  physical  condition,  knows  these 
gray  days  and  dreads  them  as  visit 
ors  who  enter  without  the  formality  of 
knocking,  and  who  linger  long  after  the 
slender  welcome  which  gave  them  unwill 
ing  recognition  has  been  worn  threadbare. 
One  cannot  wholly  get  away  from  the 
weather  even  if  his  mind  be  of  the  sanest 
and  his  body  of  the  soundest;  we  are  too 
much  involved  in  the  general  order  of 
things  not  to  be  more  or  less  sympathetic 
with  the  atmosphere  and  sky.  There  are 
days  when  one  must  make  a  strenuous 
effort  to  be  less  than  gay  ;  there  are  days 
when  one  must  make  an  equally  strenu 
ous  effort  to  preserve  the  bare  appearance 
of  cheerfulness. 

And  yet  no   man  need  be  the  slave 
of  the  day ;    he  may  escape  out  of  it 
M3 


My  Study  Fire 

into  the  broad  spaces  of  the  years,  into 
the  vastness  of  the  centuries.  There  is 
every  kind  of  weather  in  books,  and  on 
such  a  day  as  this  one  has  but  to  make 
his  choice  of  climate,  season,  and  sky. 
Stirring  the  fire  until  it  throws  a  ruddy 
glow  on  the  windows  where  the  melan 
choly  day  weeps  in  monotonous  de 
spair,  I  may  open  Theocritus,  and  what 
to  me  are  the  fogs  and  mists  of  March 
on  the  Atlantic  coast  ?  I  am  in  Sicily, 
and  the  olive  and  pine  are  green,  sky 
and  sea  meet  in  a  line  so  blue  that  I 
know  not  whether  it  be  water  or  atmos 
phere  ;  the  cicada  whirs  ;  the  birds  stir 
in  the  little  wood ;  and  from  the  distance 
come  the  notes  of  the  shepherd's  pipe. 
All  this  is  mine  if  I  choose  to  stretch 
out  my  hand  and  open  a  little  book  — 
all  this  and  a  hundred  other  shining 
skies  north  and  south,  east  and  west. 
I  need  not  spend  a  minute  with  this 
March  day  if  I  choose  to  open  any  one 
of  these  countless  doors  of  escape.  I 
know  the  roads  well,  for  I  have  often 
144 


Dull  Days 

taken  them  when  such  mists  as  these 
that  lie  upon  the  woods  and  meadows 
have  pressed  too  closely  on  my  spirits. 

But  there  is  something  to  be  learned 
from  a  dull  day,  and  the  wiser  part  is 
to  stay  and  con  the  lesson.  He  who 
knows  only  brilliant  skies  has  still  to 
know  some  of  the  profoundest  aspects 
behind  which  nature  conceals  herself. 
Corot's  morning  skies  stir  the  imagina 
tion  to  its  very  depths ;  but  also  do 
those  noble  etchings  of  Van  Gravesande 
which  report  the  blackness  of  night  and 
storm  about  the  lighthouse  and  the  som 
bre  mystery  of  the  deep  woods. 

A  dull  day  need  not  be  a  depressing 
day;  depression  always  implies  physical 
or  moral  weakness,  and  is,  therefore, 
never  to  be  tolerated  so  long  as  one 
can  struggle  against  it.  But  a  dull  day 
—  a  day  without  deep  emotions,  inspir 
ing  thought,  marked  events ;  a  day 
monotonous  and  colourless;  a  day  which 
proclaims  itself  neutral  among  all  the 
conflicting  interests  of  life,  is  a  day  to 

10  145 


My  Study  Fire 

be  valued.  Such  a  day  is  recuperative, 
sedative,  reposeful.  It  gives  emotion 
opportunity  to  accumulate  volume  and 
force,  thought  time  to  clarify  and  review 
its  conclusions,  the  senses  that  inaction 
which  freshens  them  for  clearer  percep 
tions  and  keener  enjoyments.  A  dull 
day  is  often  the  mother  of  many  bright 
days.  It  is  easy  to  surrender  one's  self 
to  the  better  mood  of  such  a  day;  to 
accept  its  repose  and  reject  its  gloom. 
As  the  hours  pass  one  finds  himself 
gently  released  from  the  tension  of  the 
work  which  had  begun  to  haunt  his 
dreams,  quietly  detached  from  places  and 
persons  associated  with  the  discipline 
and  responsibility  of  daily  occupation. 
The  steady  dropping  of  the  rain  soothes 
and  calms  the  restlessness  of  a  mind 
grown  too  fixed  upon  its  daily  task ; 
the  low-lying  mists  aid  the  illusion 
that  the  world  beyond  is  a  dream,  and 
that  the  only  reality  is  here  within  these 
cheerful  walls.  After  a  time  this  pas 
sive  enjoyment  becomes  active,  this  nega- 
146 


Dull  Days 

tive  pleasure  takes  on  a  positive  form. 
There  is  something  pleasant  in  the  beat 
of  the  storm,  something  agreeable  in  the 
colourless  landscape.  One  has  gotten 
rid  of  his  every-day  self,  and  gotten  into 
the  mood  of  a  day  which  discountenan 
ces  great  enterprises  and  sustained  en 
deavours  of  every  kind.  One  stirs  the 
fire  with  infinite  satisfaction,  and  coddles 
himself  in  the  cosy  contrast  between  the 
cheerfulness  within  and  the  gloom  with 
out.  One  wanders  from  window  to  win 
dow,  lounges  in  every  easy-chair,  gives 
himself  up  to  dreams  which  come  and 
go  without  order  or  coherence,  as  if  the 
mind  had  given  itself  up  to  play.  Pleas 
ant  places  and  faces  reappear  from  a 
past  into  which  they  had  been  somewhat 
rudely  pressed  by  a  present  too  busy  to 
concern  itself  with  memories  ;  old  plans 
reform  themselves,  old  purposes  and 
hopes  are  revived  ;  the  works  one  meant 
to  accomplish  and  abandoned  by  the  way 
disclose  new  possibilities  of  realisation. 
When  the  afternoon  begins  to  darken, 


My  Study  Fire 

one  finds  that  he  has  gathered  from  the 
past  many  fragments  that  promise  to 
find  completion  in  some  new  and  sounder 
form.  It  has  been  a  day  of  gleaning, 
if  not  of  harvesting.  As  the  night  de 
scends,  fresh  fuel  renews  the  smoulder 
ing  flame,  and  the  past,  so  quietly,  almost 
unconsciously,  recalled,  projects  itself 
into  the  future,  and  stirs  the  imagination 
with  a  hope  that  to-morrow  may  be 
come  a  purpose,  and  the  day  after  an 
achievement. 


148 


Chapter  XVI 

The  Universal  Biography 

ALL  day  long  the  snow  has  been 
whirling  over  the  fields  in  shapes 
so  varied  and  so  elusive  that  I  have  fan 
cied  myself  present  at  a  dance  of  phan 
toms  —  wandering  ghosts  of  dead  seasons 
haunting  the  fields  which  once  spread 
out  sunlighted  and  fragrant  before  them. 
At  intervals  the  sun  has  pierced  the 
clouds  and  touched  the  earth  with  a  daz 
zling  brilliancy,  but  for  the  most  part 
the  winds  have  driven  the  storm  before 
them,  and  at  times  wrapped  all  visible 
things  in  a  white  mist  of  obscurity.  On 
such  a  day  the  open  fire  lights  the  open 
book  with  a  glow  of  peculiar  cheer  and 
friendliness ;  it  seems  to  search  out  what 
ever  of  human  warmth  lies  at  the  root  of 
a  man's  thought,  and  to  kindle  it  with  a 
kindred  heat.  On  such  a  day  the  com- 
149 


My  Study  Fire 

panionable  quality  of  a  book  discovers 
itself  as  at  no  other  time  ;  it  seems  to 
take  advantage  of  the  absence  of  nature 
to  exert  its  own  peculiar  charm.  In 
summer  the  vast  and  inexhaustible  life 
of  nature,  audible  at  every  hour  and 
present  at  every  turn  of  thought,  makes 
most  books  pallid  and  meagre.  In  the 
universal  light  which  streams  over  the 
earth  all  lights  of  man's  making  seem 
artificial,  unreal,  and  out  of  place.  There 
are  days  in  summer  when  the  best  book 
affects  one  as  a  stage  set  for  the  play  in 
broad  daylight.  But  when  the  days  are 
shortened,  and  darkness  lies  on  half  the 
dial-plate,  the  life  that  is  in  books  takes 
heart  again  and  boldly  claims  compan 
ionship  with  the  noblest  minds. 

As  I  look  out  of  my  window  I  recog 
nise  scarcely  a  feature  of  last  summer's 
landscape,  so  universal  and  so  illusive  is 
the  transformation  which  the  snow  has 
wrought.  It  is  a  veritable  new  world 
which  stretches  away,  white  and  silent, 
toward  the  horizon.  But  this  change  is 
'5° 


The  Universal  Biography 

not   greater  than    that   of  which  I    am 
conscious    as  I    look  within    and  follow 
the  lines  of  my  books  around  the  walls. 
These  wear  a  new  aspect,  and  one  that 
appeals  to  me  with  a  subtle  sense  of  fel 
lowship.     Last  summer  we  were  casual 
acquaintances ;    to-day    we    are    intimate 
and  inseparable  friends.     It  is  not  only 
true  that  there  is  always  a  man  back  of  a 
book,  but  in  every  book  there  is  always 
a  part  of  one's  self.     The  greater  a  book 
is,  the   more  familiar  it  is ;    we    do    not 
stop  to  weigh  its  affirmations  and  con 
clusions  ;    we  have  always  known  them 
to  be  true.     A  chapter  of  scientific  inves 
tigation,  a  page  in  a  book  of  mere  infor-  . 
mation,  will  challenge  our  criticism  and 
arouse  our  antagonism  ;    but  a  book  of 
power,  a  book  which  records  the  drop 
ping  of  the  lead    into  some  fathomless 
pool  of  consciousness,  commands  our  as 
sent  at  once  ;    it  simply  expresses  what 
we  have  always  known.     In  summer,  na 
ture  spreads  all  manner  of  nets  to  beguile 
us  out  of  ourselves ;  but  when  the  fires 


My  Study  Fire 

sing  to  us,  their  cheerful  monotone  be 
comes  a  softly  touched  accompaniment 
to  our  introspection.  The  golden  mile 
stone  in  the  Roman  Forum,  from  which 
one  could  begin  his  journey  to  the  four 
quarters  of  the  globe,  has  its  analogue  in 
every  man's  soul ;  into  whatever  part  of 
the  universe  he  would  travel,  he  must 
start  from  his  own  personal  consciousness. 
Our  thoughts  make  highways  of  the 
courses  which  they  habitually  take  when 
we  leave  them  to  themselves,  and  foot 
paths  along  which  they  loiter  when  fancy 
beguiles  them  unawares  into  her  com 
panionship.  But,  however  the  journey 
be  undertaken,  or  to  whatever  quar 
ter  it  tend,  thought  always  starts  from 
and  returns  to  one's  self.  It  is  through 
our  own  consciousness  that  we  penetrate 
the  secrets  of  other  experiences  and  inter 
pret  the  mystery  of  the  universe. 

There  is  a  sense,  therefore,  in  which 

all  the  great  books  are  chapters  out  of 

our   personal  history.      We   read   them 

with  a  certain  sense  of  ownership ;  the 

152 


The  Universal  Biography 

feeling  of  a  man  who  comes  upon  a 
mechanical  device  which  he  long  ago 
hit  upon,  but  never  took  the  trouble 
to  protect  by  patent.  We  can  never 
be  surprised  by  any  revelation  of  life  or 
character,  because  we  carry  every  pos 
sible  development  of  these  within  the  in 
visible  realm  of  our  own  consciousness. 
Marlowe's  "  Tamburlaine  "  fills  us  with 
no  astonishment,  and  the  story  of  the 
latest  hero  who  died  for  imperilled  hu 
manity  stirs  our  pulses  mainly  because 
the  swift  crisis  appeals  to  our  nobility 
as  it  appealed  to  his.  How  often  we 
chance  upon  books  that  seem  to  be 
literal  transcriptions  of  our  own  experi 
ences!  It  fills  us  with  a  sense  of  dis 
comfort  that  we  should  be  so  well 
known,  that  the  curtain  should  have 
been  lifted  so  ruthlessly  upon  a  past 
which  we  were  striving  to  forget.  It 
is  this  common  consciousness,  this  par 
ticipation  in  a  common  memory,  which 
keeps  us  within  call  of  each  other  in  all 
the  great  crises  of  life,  and  makes  our 


My  Study  Fire 

libraries  places  of  confession  and  peni 
tence.  In  the  world's  cathedral  at 
Rome  there  are  confessionals  to  whose 
impersonal  sympathy  appeals  may  be 
made  in  every  language  spoken  by 
civilised  men ;  but  every  library  is  a 
truer  confessional,  and  a  more  universal, 
than  St.  Peter's.  The  dome  which  over 
arches  every  collection  of  great  books  is 
nothing  less  than  the  infinite  sky  which 
stretches  over  the  life  of  man,  and  no 
human  soul  ever  failed  to  find  under 
it  the  shrine  of  its  own  tutelary  saint. 
Literature  keeps  the  whole  race  under 
constant  conviction  of  sin,  and  there  are 
hours  when  every  man  feels  like  locking 
his  study  door,  so  absolutely  uncovered 
and  revealed  does  his  life  lie  in  the  speech 
of  some  great  book. 

Shakespeare  knew  us  all  so  well  that 
one  feels  the  uselessness  of  any  attempt 
at  concealment  in  his  presence ;  those 
penetrating  eyes  make  all  disguise  im 
possible.  He  takes  little  account  of  our 
masquerade,  except  to  sharpen  the  edge 


The  Universal  Biography 

of  his  irony  by  a  contrast  between  our 
pretension  and  the  bare  facts  of  our 
lives.  And  this  revelation  of  our  inner 
selves  is  the  core  of  every  book  that  en 
dures.  It  is  already  clear  that  all  the 
systems  of  philosophy  have  had  their 
day,  and  are  fast  ceasing  to  be ;  and 
there  is  every  prospect  that  the  scho 
lastic  systems  of  theology  are  going  the 
same  road.  The  facts  of  life  —  divine 
and  human  —  transcend  them  all,  and 
their  poverty  and  inadequacy  are  more 
and  more  apparent.  The  universe  is 
too  vast  for  the  girdle  of  thought;  it 
sweeps  away  immeasurably,  and  fades 
out  of  imagination  in  the  splendour  of 
uncounted  suns.  There  will  be  safe 
paths  of  knowledge  through  it  for  men 
of  reverence  and  humility,  but  the  old 
highway  of  human  omniscience  is  falling 
into  decay.  The  utmost  service  of  the 
greatest  man  is  to  bring  us  one  step 
nearer  to  the  truth,  not  as  it  lies  clear 
and  absolute  in  the  mind  of  the  Infinite, 
but  as  it  touches,  reveals,  and  sustains 


My  Study  Fire 

this  brief  and  troubled  life  of  ours. 
Therefore  it  has  been  that  the  poets 
have  done  more  for  the  highest  truth 
than  the  philosophers,  unless  the  phi 
losophers  have  also  been  poets,  as  has 
happened  now  and  then  since  the  days 
of  Plato.  One  turns  oftener  for  inspira 
tion  to  Wordsworth's  ode  on  "  Immor 
tality,"  or  to  Browning's  "  Death  in  the 
Desert"  or  "Saul,"  than  to  Kant's 
"  Critique  of  Pure  Reason "  or  Spen 
cer's  "  First  Principles." 

When  I  go  into  the  great  libraries  I 
am  oppressed,  not  by  the  mass  of  vol 
umes  packed  together  under  a  single 
roof,  but  by  the  complexity  and  vast- 
ness  of  the  life  that  lies  behind  them. 
Books  by  the  hundred  thousand  have 
been  written  to  give  that  life  expression, 
and  yet  how  little  has  been  said  that 
goes  to  the  very  heart  of  existence! 
When  one  has  read  the  great  books 
in  all  literatures,  how  much  still  re 
mains  unuttered  within  him! 


156 


Chapter  XVII 

A  Secret  of  Genius 

ONE  of  the  tests  of  greatness  is  bulk. 
Mere  mass  never  demonstrated 
the  possession  of  genius,  but  men  who 
have  borne  the  stamp  of  this  rare  and 
incommunicable  quality  have  generally 
been  creators  on  a  great  scale.  One  may 
write  a  single  poem  and  give  it  the  touch 
of  immortality  ;  a  line  may  linger  as  long 
in  the  ear  of  the  world  as  an  epic  or  a 
lyric.  But,  as  a  rule,  the  man  who  writes 
one  perfect  verse  adds  to  it  many  of  a 
kindred  beauty,  and  he  who  paints  one 
great  picture  covers  the  walls  of  the  gal 
lery.  Genius  is  energy  quite  as  much  as 
insight,  and  whether  it  dwell  in  Shake 
speare  or  in  Napoleon,  in  Michael  Angelo 
or  in  Gladstone,  it  is  always  the  mother 
of  mighty  works  as  well  as  of  great 
thoughts.  Shakespeare,  Goethe,  Lope 
de  Vega,  Moliere,  Tennyson,  Browning, 
'57 


My  Study  Fire 

Hugo,  Balzac,  Scott,  Thackeray,  fill  great 
space  on  the  shelves  of  our  libraries  as 
well  as  in  our  histories  of  literature.  In 
"Louis  Lambert"  Balzac  describes  cer 
tain  forces,  when  they  take  possession  of 
strong  personalities,  as  "  rivers  of  will ; " 
there  is  an  impetus  in  these  potential  men 
which  sweeps  away  all  obstacles  and  rolls 
on  with  the  momentum  of  a  great  stream. 
In  men  of  genius  the  same  tireless  activ 
ity,  the  same  forceful  habit,  are  often 
found ;  nothing  daunts  them ;  nothing 
subdues  them ;  they  make  all  things 
tributary  to  self-expression. 

The  story  of  the  achievements  of  Lope 
de  Vega,  of  Scott,  of  Balzac,  has  at  times 
a  hint  of  commerce  with  magical  powers ; 
so  difficult  is  it  to  reconcile  such  marvel 
lous  fecundity,  such  extraordinary  creative 
force,  with  the  usual  processes  of  produc 
tion.  Nature  has  fixed  definite  bounda 
ries  to  the  activity  of  most  men ;  there 
is  an  invisible  line  beyond  which  they 
seem  powerless  to  go.  Upon  the  man  of 
genius  no  such  limitations  are  imposed ; 
158 


A  Secret  of  Genius 

if  he  drains  his  soul,  it  is  instantly 
refilled  from  some  invisible  fountain. 
There  is  something  magical  about  such 
an  achievement  as  the  writing  of  the 
"Comedie  Humaine,"  with  its  eighty 
and  more  volumes  and  its  vast  com 
munity  of  characters.  The  physical  feat 
of  covering  so  much  paper  is  no  small 
matter ;  one  does  not  wonder  that  Balzac 
retired  to  his  workshop  with  an  unwritten 
romance  in  his  mind  and  returned  with 
the  completed  work,  worn,  exhausted, 
almost  emaciated.  Such  labours  cannot 
be  accomplished  save  by  fasting  and  self- 
denial.  More  than  two  thousand  per 
sonalities  live  and  move  and  have  their 
being  in  the  "  Comedie  Humaine,"  and 
each  is  carefully  studied,  vividly  realised, 
firmly  drawn.  In  no  actual  community 
of  the  same  number  of  souls  is  there 
anything  approaching  the  distinctness 
of  individuality,  the  variety  and  force  of 
character,  to  be  found  in  these  volumes. 
Pioneers  build  houses,  subdue  forests, 
develop  wastes.  Balzac  did  more ;  he 


My  Study  Fire 

fashioned  a  world  and  peopled  it.  All 
passions,  appetites,  aspirations,  despairs, 
hopes,  losses,  labours,  sufferings,  achieve 
ments,  were  known  to  him  ;  he  had  mas 
tered  them,  and  he  used  them  as  if  they 
were  to  serve  no  other  purpose  than  that 
of  furnishing  material  for  his  hand.  To 
have  looked  into  the  depths  of  human 
life  with  so  wide  and  penetrating  a  gaze  ; 
to  have  breathed  a  soul  into  these 
abstract  qualities ;  to  have  clothed  them 
with  the  habits,  manners,  characteris 
tics,  dress,  social  surroundings,  of  actual 
beings;  to  have  lodged  them  in  country 
and  city — is  there  any  fairy  tale  so  won 
derful,  any  miracle  wrought  by  genie  or 
magician  so  bewildering  ?  Here,  surely, 
are  the  evidences  of  the  flow  of  one  of 
those  rivers  of  will  which  have  more  than 
once  transformed  society. 

One  of  the  secrets  of  this  marvellous 
fecundity  is  to  keep  one's  self  in  the 
mood  and  atmosphere  in  which  imagina 
tion  and  heart  work  as  one  harmonious 
and  continuous  energy.  There  is  an 
1 60 


A  Secret  of  Genius 

element  of  inspiration  in  all  great  work 
which  is  never  wholly  at  command  ;  with 
the  greatest  as  with  humbler  men,  it  ebbs 
and  flows.  There  are  times  when  it 
comes  in  with  the  rush  of  the  flood ; 
when  the  mind  is  suddenly  fertilised  with 
ideas,  when  the  heart  is  "  a  nest  of  sing 
ing  birds,"  when  the  whole  visible  world 
shines  and  glows.  There  are  times,  also, 
when  its  ebb  leaves  mind  and  heart  as 
bare  and  vacant  as  the  beach  from  which 
the  tide  has  receded.  These  alternations 
of  ebb  and  flow,  of  darkness  and  light, 
are  not  unknown  to  the  greatest  souls ; 
they  are  the  invariable  accompaniments 
of  that  quality  of  soul  which  makes  a 
man  the  interpreter  of  his  fellow  and  of 
the  world  which  is  common  ground  be 
tween  them.  There  is  something  above 
us  whose  instruments  we  are ;  there  are 
currents  of  inspiration  which  touch  us 
and  our  strength  is  "  as  the  strength  of 
ten  ;  "  which  pass  from  us  and,  like  Sam 
son  shorn,  we  are  as  pygmies  with  other 
pygmies.  No  man  wholly  commands 
"  161 


My  Study  Fire 

these  affluent  moods,  these  creative  im 
pulses  ;  but  some  men  learn  the  secret 
of  appropriating  them,  of  keeping  within 
their  range.  These  are  the  men  who 
hold  themselves  with  immovable  purpose 
to  the  conditions  of  their  work  ;  who  re 
fuse  all  solicitations,  resist  all  temptations, 
to  compromise  with  customary  habits  and 
pleasures  ;  who  keep  themselves  in  their 
own  world,  and,  working  or  waiting, 
achieve  complete  self-expression.  "  I  am 
always  at  work,"  said  a  great  artist,  "  and 
when  an  inspiration  comes  I  am  ready  to 
make  the  most  of  it."  Inspiration  rarely 
leaves  such  a  man  long  unvisited.  One 
looks  at  Turner's  pictures  with  wonder  in 
his  heart.  In  this  rushing,  roaring,  sooty 
London,  with  its  leaden  skies,  its  returning 
clouds  and  obscuring  fogs,  how  were  such 
dreams  wooed  and  won  ?  The  painter's 
life  answers  the  question.  London  had 
small  share  of  Turner ;  he  lived  in  a  world 
of  his  own  making,  and  the  flush  of  its 
sky,  the  glory  of  its  golden  atmosphere, 
never  wholly  faded  from  his  vision. 
162 


Chapter  XVIII 

Books  and  Things 

ONE  of  the  pleasantest  features  of 
life  is  the  unconscious  faculty 
which  most  things  possess  of  forming 
themselves  into  groups,  or  allying  them 
selves  with  each  other  in  the  most  de 
lightful  associations.  How  easy  and 
how  agreeable  it  is  to  surround  one's 
self  with  an  atmosphere  of  congenial 
habits  and  customs !  One  awakes  in 
the  morning  to  a  day  that  is  no  empty 
house  to  be  explored  and  warmed  and 
made  habitable,  but  which  stretches 
pleasantly  on  like  a  familiar  bit  of  road, 
with  its  well-remembered  turns  and  rest 
ing-places.  It  is  a  delightful  prelude  to 
the  new  day  to  recall,  in  a  brief  review 
just  before  rising,  the  dear  faces  of  the 
household  one  is  to  see  again,  the  sunny 
rooms  to  which  one  will  shortly  descend, 
163 


My  Study  Fire 

the  open  fire  before  which  one  will  stand 
while  breakfast  is  being  laid,  the  books 
still  open  from  last  night's  reading,  the 
friendly  voices  soon  to  be  heard  on  the 
street,  and  the  accustomed  work  waiting 
for  one's  hand.  With  such  pictures  in 
his  mind  one  rises  cheerfully  to  meet  the 
toils  and  demands  of  another  working 
day.  The  law  of  association  weaves  a 
man's  life  after  a  time  into  a  rich  and 
varied  texture,  in  which  the  sober  threads 
of  care  and  work  are  interwoven  with 
the  soft  hues  of  love  and  the  splendid 
dyes  of  imagination  ;  feelings,  thoughts, 
actions,  are  no  longer  detached  and  iso 
lated  ;  they  are  blended  together  into 
the  fulness  and  symmetry  of  a  rich 
life.  One's  toil  gathers  sweetness  from 
the  thought  of  those  to  whose  com 
fort  it  ministers ;  one's  books  are  en 
riched  by  the  consciousness  of  the 
immeasurable  life  from  which  they  flow 
as  tiny  rivulets ;  one's  friends  stand 
for  genius  and  art  and  noble  achieve 
ment;  and  one's  life  ceases  to  be  a 
164 


Books  and  Things 

single  strain,  and  becomes  a  harmony 
of  many  chords,  each  suggesting  and 
deepening  the  melody  of  every  other. 

Last  evening,   after  dinner,  Rosalind, 
after  her    usual    custom,   began    playing 
some    simple,    beautiful    German    com 
positions,  to  which   the   children    never 
fail    to    respond    with    a   merry    frolic. 
When  she  came  to  the  end  of  the  daily 
programme,  one  of  the  dancers,  golden 
hair  all  in   disorder,   pointed  to  a  page 
in    the    open    music    book,    and    said : 
"  Mamma,  please  play  that ;   it  always 
makes     me     think    of    c  Baby    Bell/ ' 
Happy  Mr.  Aldrich  !     Could  anything 
be   more  delightful   than  to   know  that 
one's  verse  is  associated  with  music  in 
the  mind  of  a  child !     The  simple  re 
quest,  with  its  reason,  made  a  deep  im 
pression  on  me ;  I  saw  for  the  first  time 
how  early  the  sense  of  universal  beauty 
is  awake  in  childhood,  and  how  instinc 
tively  it   sees    that   all   beautiful    things 
are  akin  to  each  other.     It  was  the  first 
page  in  that  sublime  revelation  of  the 
'65 


My  Study  Fire 

soul  of  things  through  which  a  man 
comes  at  last  to  see  in  one  vision  the 
flower  at  his  feet  and  the  evening  star 
silvery  and  solitary  on  the  girdle  of  the 
early  night,  the  radiant  smile  on  the  face 
that  he  loves  and  the  great  measureless 
wealth  of  sunshine  across  the  summer 
fields.  It  is  this  clear  perception  of 
the  universal  relationship  of  things  which 
makes  a  man  a  scholar  instead  of  a 
pedant,  and  turns  a  library  into  a  place 
of  inspiration  and  impulse  instead  of  a 
place  of  memory  and  repose. 

In  my  experience  the  association  be 
tween  books  and  music  is  intimate  and 
ever  recurring.  I  never  hear  a  certain 
piece  of  Haydn's  without  seeing,  on  the 
instant,  the  massive  ranges  of  the  Scot 
tish  Highlands  as  they  rise  into  the  still 
heavens  in  the  pages  of  Walter  Scott's 
"  Waverley  ; "  and  there  is  another  simple 
melody  which  carries  me  back  to  the  ship 
wreck  in  the  "^Eneid."  Some  books 
seem  to  have  found  a  more  subtle  ren 
dering  at  the  hands  of  Chopin  ;  and  there 
166 


Books  and  Things 

are  others  which  recall  movements  in 
Beethoven's  symphonies.  For  this  rea 
son  it  is  a  great  delight  to  read  with  a 
soft  accompaniment  of  music  in  another 
room  ;  there  always  remains  an  echo  of 
melody  hidden  in  the  heart  of  thoughts 
that  have  come  to  one  under  such  cir 
cumstances,  and  which  gives  back  its 
unheard  note  when  they  are  read  again 
elsewhere.  In  reading  Milton  one  rarely 
forgets  that  the  hand  which  wrote  "Par 
adise  Lost "  knew  the  secrets  of  the  or 
gan  and  could  turn  them  into  sound  at 
will. 

How  many  and  how  rich  are  the  per 
sonal  associations  of  books  that  have 
gradually  been  brought  together  as  one 
needed  them  for  his  work,  and  was  drawn 
there  by  some  personal  longing !  This 
book  has  the  author's  name  written  in 
a  characteristic  hand  on  the  fly-leaf; 
between  the  leaves  of  its  neighbour  is 
hidden  a  friendly  note  from  the  writer, 
recalling  the  peculiar  circumstances  un 
der  which  it  was  written ;  and  in  this 
167 


My  Study  Fire 

famous  novel  which  lies  open  before 
me  there  is  a  rose  which  bloomed  last 
summer  across  the  sea  in  the  novelist's 
garden  in  Surrey.  In  a  place  by  them 
selves  are  six  little  volumes  worn  with 
much  reading  and  with  many  journey- 
ings.  For  many  years  they  were  the 
constant  companions  of  one  whose  hand 
touched  some  of  the  deepest  chords  of  life, 
and  made  a  music  of  her  own  which  the 
world  will  not  soon  forget.  They  speak 
to  me  sometimes  with  the  clearness  and 
authority  of  her  own  words,  so  many  are 
the  traces  which  she  has  left  upon  them 
of  intimate  fellowship.  They  have  been 
read  by  the  fjords  of  Norway  and  the 
lakes  of  Italy,  and  I  never  open  them 
without  feeling  the  presence  of  that  eager 
and  aspiring  spirit  to  whom  every  day 
was  an  open  door  to  a  new  truth  and  a 
fresh  life.  Indeed,  I  am  never  so  near 
the  world  as  in  my  study,  nor  do  I  ever 
feel  elsewhere  the  burden  and  mystery 
of  life  coming  in  upon  me  with  such 
awful  and  subduing  power.  There  are 
1 68 


Books  and  Things 

hours  when  these  laden  shelves  seem  to 
me  like  some  vast  organ  upon  whose 
keys  an  unseen  hand  evokes  the  full 
harmony  of  life. 

What  a  magical  power  of  recalling 
past  intellectual  experiences  familiar 
books  possess  !  —  experiences  that  were 
the  beginnings  of  new  epochs  in  our 
personal  history.  One  may  almost  re 
count  the  growth  of  his  mind  by  the 
titles  of  great  books  ;  the  first  reading 
of  Carlyle's  essay  on  "  Characteristics," 
of  Emerson's  "  Nature,"  of  Goethe's 
"  Faust,"  of  Coleridge's  "  Literaria  Bio- 
graphica  "  —  how  the  freshness  and  in 
spiration  of  those  hours  of  dawning 
insight  come  back  to  one  as  he  turns 
the  well-worn  leaves  !  It  used  to  be  re 
garded  as  a  rare  piece  of  good  fortune 
to  have  the  opportunity  of  loaning 
books  to  Coleridge  ;  the  great  thinker 
always  returned  them  with  margins  en 
riched  with  criticisms  and  comments  and 
references  often  of  far  greater  value  than 
the  text  itself.  A  book  so  annotated, 
169 


My  Study  Fire 

with  the  initials  S.  T.  C.  on  every  other 
page,  became  thereafter  too  precious  ever 
to  be  loaned  again.  In  like  manner 
there  are  written  on  the  margins  of  the 
books  we  have  about  us  all  manner  of 
personal  incident  and  history ;  no  one 
reads  these  invisible  records  but  our 
selves,  but  to  us  they  sometimes  out 
weigh  the  book  itself. 


170 


Chapter  XIX 

A  Rare  Nature 

AMONG  the  multitude  of  books 
which  find  their  way  to  the  light 
of  my  study  fire  there  comes,  at  long 
intervals,  one  which  searches  my  own 
consciousness  to  the  depths  and  on  the 
instant  compels  my  recognition  of  that 
rare  creation,  a  true  work  of  art.  The 
indefinable  atmosphere,  the  incommuni 
cable  touch,  of  perfection  are  about  and 
upon  it,  and  one  is  suddenly  conscious  of 
a  new  and  everlasting  possession  for  the 
race.  Such  a  book  lies  open  before  me  ; 
it  is  the  "Journal  Intime"  of  Henri 
Frederic  Amiel.  "There  is  a  point  of 
perfection  in  art,"  says  La  Bruyere,  "  as 
there  is  of  goodness  and  ripeness  in 
nature ;  he  who  feels  and  loves  it  has 
perfect  taste ;  he  who  feels  it  not,  and 
who  loves  something  beneath  or  beyond 
171 


My  Study  Fire 

it,  has  faulty  taste."  The  perfection 
which  I  feel  in  this  book  is  something 
deeper  and  diviner  than  taste ;  it  is  a 
matter  of  soul,  and  must  therefore  remain 
undescribed.  Like  the  flawless  line  of 
beauty,  it  will  instantly  reveal  itself  to 
those  who  have  the  instinct  for  art,  and 
to  those  who  fail  to  perceive  it  at  the 
first  glance  it  will  remain  forever  invis 
ible.  There  is  in  some  natures  a  qual 
ity  of  ripeness  which  makes  all  the  hard 
processes  of  growth  sweet  and,  in  the 
general  confusion  of  this  workshop  stage 
of  life,  gives  us  a  sudden  glimpse  of 
perfection.  Not  that  Amiel  was  a  man 
of  symmetrical  character  or  life ;  in 
neither  of  these  two  master  lines  of  ac 
tion  did  he  achieve  anything  like  com 
plete  success  ;  to  himself,  as  to  his  best 
friends,  he  was  but  a  promise,  and  at 
his  death  it  seemed  as  if  even  the  prom 
ise  had  failed.  Nevertheless  there  was 
in  this  man  of  infirm  will  and  imperfect 
development  a  quality  of  soul  which 
must  be  counted  rare  at  all  times,  and 
172 


A  Rare  Nature 

which,  in  this  present  era  of  bustle  and 
energy,  brings  something  of  the  surprise 
of  a  revelation  with  it.  These  discon 
nected  and  unmethodical  meditations, 
extending  over  a  period  of  thirty-three- 
years,  are  a  kind  of  subtle  distillation  of 
life  in  which  one  feels  in  its  finer  essence 
the  whole  body  of  modern  thinking  and 
feeling.  This  "  Journal  Intime  "is  the 
sole  fruit  of  a  period  of  time  long  enough 
to  contain  the  activities  of  a  whole  gen 
eration;  but  how  much  more  significant 
is  the  silence  of  such  a  book  than  the 
articulate  speech  of  great  masses  of  men  ! 
It  is  something  that,  at  the  bottom  of 
this  great  restless  ocean  of  modern  life, 
such  a  pearl  as  this  lay  hid. 

Amiel  stands  for  a  class  of  men  of 
genius,  of  keenly  receptive  and  intensely 
sensitive  temperament ;  men  like  Joubert 
and  Maurice  de  Guerin,  whose  lives  are 
as  rich  on  the  side  of  thought  as  they 
are  unproductive  on  the  side  of  action. 
Such  men  teach  almost  as  much  through 
their  defects  as  through  their  strength. 


My  Study  Fire 

Perhaps  it  is  true  that  the  quality  of 
ripeness  one  finds  in  such  natures  is 
due  to  a  preponderance  of  the  ideal 
sufficient  to  destroy  the  balance  of  char 
acter.  Men  of  this  fibre  absorb  expe 
rience,  and  produce  only  scantily,  but 
their  production  has  an  unmistakable 
stamp  upon  it ;  they  are  not  interpreters 
of  universal  life,  but  they  slowly  distil 
from  life  a  few  truths  of  luminous  qual 
ity.  They  recall  the  profound  saying 
of  Alfred  de  Musset,  that  it  takes  a  great 
deal  of  life  to  make  a  little  art;  the 
movement  of  a  generation  yields  them 
a  few  meditations,  but  somehow  these 
seem  to  open  everything  up  and  to  make 
us  feel  how  precious  is  thought,  since 
such  a  vast  range  of  action  is  needed  to 
give  it  adequate  and  complete  expres 
sion.  After  Napoleon  has  stormed 
through  Europe  and  filled  the  world 
with  the  dust  and  uproar  of  change,  a 
quiet  thinker,  living  and  dying  far  from 
the  current  of  events,  interprets  for  us 
the  two  or  three  ideas  which  gave  the 


A  Rare  Nature 

sword  of  the  soldier  its  only  significance 
and  dignity. 

There  are  a  few  eternal  elements  in 
life,  but  these  are  hidden  for  the  most 
part  by  the  dust  of  traffic  and  travel. 
Men  hurry  to  and  fro  in  search  of  truth, 
and  are  unconscious  that  it  shines  over 
them  with  the  lustre  of  a  fixed  star  if 
they  would  keep  silent  for  a  little,  and 
let  the  air  clarify  itself,  and  the  heavens 
become  visible  once  more.  No  life 
gains  its  perfect  poise  without  action,  but 
in  the  exaggerated  emphasis  laid  upon 
works  of  hand  in  this  Western  world 
one  is  often  tempted  at  times  by  the 
silent  solicitation  of  the  meditative  East. 
There,  in  the  hush  of  thought,  men 
have  always  been  conscious  of  their 
souls,  and,  if  they  have  fallen  into  the 
tideless  sea  of  pantheism,  have  at  least 
been  delivered  from  the  hard  and  dusty 
ways  of  materialism.  The  just  balance 
of  life  among  us  is  preserved  by  such 
men  as  Amiel ;  men  who  keep  apart 
from  crowds  and  in  the  perpetual  pres- 
175 


My  Study  Fire 

ence  of  the  everlasting  verities.  There 
is  in  such  men  a  wonderful  freshness 
of  thought,  which  makes  us  conscious  of 
the  arid  atmosphere  in  which  most  of 
us  work  and  suffocate.  Life  is  old  only 
to  those  who  live  in  its  conventions  and 
formulas  ;  the  soil  is  exhausted  only  for 
those  whose  ploughshare  turns  the  shal 
low  furrow.  To  all  others  it  is  still 
fresh  with  undiscovered  truth,  still  inex 
haustible  in  the  wealth  with  which  the 
Infinite  Mind  has  stored  it,  as  the  In 
finite  Hand  has  filled  its  veins  with  gold 
and  its  mountains  with  iron.  Amiel's 
life  was  not  one  of  those  overflowing 
rivers  which  make  continents  blossom 
as  they  sweep  to  the  sea ;  it  was  rather 
one  of  those  deep  wells  which  are  fed 
by  hidden  rills  into  which  a  few  stars 
shine  with  strange  lustre,  and  which 
have  power  to  assuage  the  thirst  of  the 
soul. 


176 


Chapter  XX 

The  Cuckoo  Strikes  Twelve 

"  TF  Rosalind  were  here,"  I  said  to  my- 
A  self,  as  I  gave  the  fire  a  vigorous 
stirring  —  "if  Rosalind  were  here,  the 
fire  would  burn  with  better  heart." 
Everything  takes  advantage  of  Rosa 
lind's  absence ;  the  house  is  less  friendly 
and  hospitable,  and  has  become  at  times 
neglectful  of  the  soothing  ministration 
of  a  home  to  one's  unconscious  longings 
for  mute  companionship ;  the  study  has 
lost  something  which  I  cannot  define, 
but  the  going  of  which  has  carried  the 
charm  of  the  place  with  it;  even  here 
the  fire,  which  has  been  cheerful  in  all 
weathers,  and  set  a  persistent  glow  on  the 
front  of  the  sullen  days,  is  sluggish  and 
faint-hearted.  "  Why  should  I  sing  and 
shine  if  there  is  no  face  to  put  a  halo 

12  ,77 


My  Study  Fire 

about  ?  "  it  seems  to  mutter  to  itself  as  the 
sticks  fall  apart  and  the  blaze  smoulders 
again  for  the  twentieth  time.  It  is  a  still 
wintry  night,  and  one  cannot  resist  the 
mood  which  bears  him  on  into  the  silence 
and  solitude  of  meditation.  Without, 
the  lonely  stars  watch  the  lonely  earth 
across  the  abysses  of  space  which  nothing 
traverses  save  the  invisible  feet  of  light. 
The  moon  is  waning  below  the  horizon 
which  shows  yet  no  silvery  token  of  its 
coming ;  the  earth  sleeps  under  the  an 
cient  spell  of  winter.  One  is  driven  back 
on  himself  by  a  world  which,  for  the 
time,  is  as  mute  as  if  birds  had  never 
sung,  nor  forest  rustled,  nor  brooks 
prattled.  One  is  driven  back  upon  him 
self,  and  finds  the  society  neither  stimu 
lating  nor  agreeable.  There  are  times 
when  one  is  excellent  company  for  one's 
self,  but  not  on  such  a  night  as  this,  when 
the  house  is  deserted,  and  the  fire  watches 
for  a  chance  to  go  out. 

I   suspect  that  the  companionship  of 
the  open  fire  is,  after  all,  a  negative  thing ; 
178 


The  Cuckoo  Strikes  Twelve 

an  accompaniment  to  which  one's  own 
mood  furnishes  the  theme  that  is  always 
elaborated  and  expanded.  If  you  are 
cheerful,  your  fire  sings  to  you ;  if  you 
are  overcast,  its  faint  and  melancholy 
glow  makes  the  clouds  that  encompass 
more  threatening.  It  rises  or  sinks  with 
your  mood,  and  its  song  strikes  the 
major  or  the  minor  tone  according  to  the 
pitch  of  your  thought.  The  man  who 
can  cheerfully  "  toast  his  toes "  in  all 
weathers  will  never  lack  a  servile  fire  to 
flatter  his  self-satisfaction.  Such  a  man 
is  always  housed  against  the  storm ;  he 
is  never  abroad  with  the  tempests.  His 
little  capital  of  life  and  love  is  a  buried 
treasure  which  will  not  be  lost  in  any 
venture ;  it  feeds  no  large  desire,  sustains 
no  noble  hope,  is  multiplied  into  no 
wealth  that  may  be  divided  and  subdi 
vided  until  it  makes  the  many  rich.  The 
miserly  man  is  of  all  men  the  most  un 
lucky  when  he  counts  his  fortune  by  the 
light  of  the  solitary  fire.  It  is  all  there; 
he  touches  every  shining  piece  and  knows 
179 


My  Study  Fire 

that  it  is  safe.  But  where  are  those 
greater  possessions  which  yield  the  price 
less  revenues  of  love  and  happiness  ? 
They  are  gained  only  by  those  who  make 
great  ventures  ;  who  invest  all  their  hope 
and  joy  for  the  sake  of  the  larger  return 
which  this  inherited  wealth,  fortunately 
invested,  secures.  It  is  a  great  risk ; 
but  what  large  adventure,  what  splendid 
achievement,  comes  unattended  with  risk? 
He  only  is  perfectly  secure  from  loss  who 
hoards  his  treasure  until  it  corrupts  itself 
for  want  of  use.  On  the  other  hand,  as 
Lessing  has  said,  he  makes  noble  ship 
wreck  who  is  lost  in  seeking  worlds.  It 
is  better  to  go  down  on  the  great  seas 
which  human  hearts  were  made  to  sail 
than  to  rot  at  the  wharves  in  ignoble 
anchorage.  It  is  far  better  to  put  one's 
whole  life  into  some  noble  venture  of  love 
or  service  than  to  sit  at  home  with  slip 
pered  feet  always  on  the  fender. 

"If  Rosalind  were  here,"  I  said  to  my 
self  again,  "  this  fire  would  surely  need 
less  frequent  stirring."    When  I  laid  the 
180 


The  Cuckoo  Strikes  Twelve 

poker  down  and  settled  myself  for  further 
meditation,  the  blaze  suddenly  kindled 
and  brought  the  whole  room  into  cheer 
ful  relief.  In  the  ruddy  light  my  eyes 
caught  the  title  of  a  famous  book  whose 
pages  are  often  open  in  my  hand.  It 
was  like  coming  unexpectedly  upon  a 
friend  when  one  thought  one's  self  alone. 
I  took  it  from  its  place  and  let  it  fall  open 
upon  my  knee,  where  the  dancing  light 
wove  arabesques  of  gold  about  the  text, 
as  the  monks  in  the  scriptorium  once 
intertwined  the  black  letter  with  the  glory 
of  bird  and  flower.  It  was  a  wonderful 
book  which  lay  there  open  to  the  fire ;  a 
book  which  is  "  the  precious  life-blood 
of  a  master-spirit,  imbalm'd  and  treasur'd 
up  on  purpose  to  a  life  beyond  life ; "  a 
book  deep  almost  as  thought  and  great 
almost  as  life.  I  did  not  read  the  lines 
that  were  clearly  legible  on  my  knee  ;  the 
great  book  seemed  to  speak  its  whole 
message  without  words.  I  recalled  the 
story  of  the  man  that  wrote  it;  I  followed 
him  step  by  step  through  his  stormy  and 
181 


My  Study  Fire 

arduous  life ;  I  remembered  all  his  losses 
and  sacrifices ;  I  understood  as  never 
before  the  completeness  of  his  self-sur 
render.  He  had  been  a  world-seeker; 
he  had  missed  the  lower  comforts  of  life ; 
for  him  the  alien  stars  had  burned,  but 
not  the  cheerful  fire  of  unadventurous 
ease.  Had  he  made  shipwreck  ?  If  he 
had,  his  going  down  had  strewn  the 
shores  of  all  time  with  a  wreckage  so 
precious  that  it  had  made  the  whole 
world  rich.  This  man  had  put  his  whole 
life  of  happiness  into  two  great  ventures  ; 
he  had  risked  all  for  love,  and  again  he 
had  risked  all  for  the  city  that  bore  him  ; 
and  his  was  a  double  loss.  Of  his 
splendid  fortune  of  personal  happiness 
there  remained  but  a  beatific  vision  and 
a  lifelong  devotion  scorned  and  rejected. 
Surely  it  were  better  to  live  at  ease  with 
one's  self  and  one's  fire  than  tempt  for 
tune  thus !  But  then,  I  thought,  are  not 
the  man  and  the  book  and  the  vision  and 
the  great  life  to  be  reckoned  in  the  full 
accounting  ?  Out  of  the  bitter  root  of 
182 


The  Cuckoo  Strikes  Twelve 

personal  loss  and  sorrow  these  immortal 
flowers  have   bloomed ! 

"  If  Rosalind  were  here,"  I  said  to 
the  fire,  which  was  now  burning  cheer 
fully,  "  she  would  show  us  the  heart  of 
this  matter."  And  as  I  fell  to  thinking 
about  her  again,  I  saw  how  manifold  are 
the  workings  of  the  law  that  man  must 
lose  his  life  if  he  would  find  it,  must  give 
himself  if  he  would  really  possess  himself. 
I  recalled  one  by  one  the  books  that  had 
spoken  to  me  in  the  crises  of  my  life,  or 
had  been  my  companions  when  the  road 
ran  straight  and  sunny  before  me,  and  I 
understood  that,  one  and  all,  these  were 
the  returns  from  great  ventures,  the 
rewards  of  great  risks.  I  saw  that  these 
great  spiritual  and  intellectual  treasures 
had  been  gotten  on  many  shores,  plucked 
from  the  depths  of  many  seas ;  that  no 
man  is  ever  rich  enough  to  divide  with 
his  fellows  or  bequeath  to  posterity  un 
less  he  puts  his  heart  into  some  great 
affection,  and  his  whole  thought  into 
some  great  enterprise.  The  men  who 
183 


My  Study  Fire 

sit  at  home  have  neither  beneficiaries 
nor  heirs ;  they  possess  nothing  but 
their  poverty,  and  that  vanishes  with 
them  when  death  makes  up  the  impar 
tial  account.  After  all,  I  said  to  myself, 
no  one  is  ever  poor  who  has  once  been 
rich ;  for  the  real  return  of  a  great  ven 
ture  is  in  the  expansion  and  enrichment 
of  one's  own  nature ;  and  that  cannot  fly 
from  us  as  the  shy  bird  happiness  so 
often  escapes  into  the  upper  sky  whence 
it  came  to  build  its  fragile  nest  in  our 
hearts.  To  have  done  some  great  ser 
vice  and  felt  the  thrill  of  it,  is  enough  to 
remember  when  the  hour  is  passed  and 
the  deed  forgotten  ;  to  have  poured  one's 
whole  life  into  some  great  affection  is 
never  to  be  impoverished  again.  After 
the  beautiful  face  became  first  a  beautiful 
memory  and  then  a  heavenly  vision,  the 
poet  was  never  again  alone ;  in  all  his 
arduous  wanderings  there  was  with  him 
one  whose  footfall  in  Paradise  all  the 
world  has  listened  to  hear.  Love  is  the 
only  synonym  in  any  earthly  speech  for 
184 


The  Cuckoo  Strikes  Twelve 

immortality ;  it  has  no  past,  for  it  carries 
all  that  it  has  been  in  its  heart ;  and  it 
has  no  future,  for  it  already  realises  its 
own  completeness  and  finality.  •  To  have 
seen  once  the  heart  of  a  pure,  loyal,  and 
noble  nature  is  to  have  gained  an  imper 
ishable  possession. 

Just  then  the  silence  in  which  I  sat 
was  broken ;  the  cuckoo  flew  out  of  his 
little  door  and  chaunted  twelve  cheerful 
notes.  "  It  makes  all  the  difference  in 
the  world,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  how  you 
report  the  flight  of  time.  You  may 
have  a  hammer  ring  the  hours  for  you 
on  hard  and  resonant  metal,  or  you  may 
cage  a  bird  and  set  the  years  to  music." 
And  I  remembered  how  long  that  tiny 
song  had  broken  on  my  ears ;  how  it 
had  blended  with  the  first  thrilling, 
articulate  cry  of  life,  and  how  it  had 
kept  record  of  hours  of  great  agonies 
and  joys.  Through  the  darkness  as  the 
light,  its  cheerful  song  had  set  the  days 
and  years  to  an  impartial  music.  Did  I 
dream  then,  as  I  listened,  before  the 


My  Study  Fire 

dying  fire,  to  the  echoes  of  the  vanished 
years,  that  a  bird  flew  out  of  Paradise, 
and,  alone  of  all  the  heavenly  brood, 
returned  ,no  more,  but  built  its  nest 
along  the  ways  of  men,  seeking  always 
for  one  to  whom  its  divine  song  should 
be  audible ;  and  that,  having  heard  that 
thrilling  note,  the  chosen  ones  heard  no 
other  sound,  but  followed  whithersoever 
the  song  led  them,  and  knew  that  at  the 
end  it  would  not  die  out  in  the  evening 
sky  !  "  If  Rosalind  were  here,"  I  said  to 
the  fire  as  I  covered  the  warm  coals  for 
the  night  —  "if  Rosalind  were  here  —  " 


186 


Chapter  XXI 

A  Glimpse  of  Spring 

LOOKING  out  of  the  study  windows 
this  morning,  Rosalind  noticed  a 
sudden  change  in  the  group  of  willows 
on  the  hill.  There  was  a  tinge  of  fresh 
colour  in  the  mass  of  twigs  which  we 
recognised  as  the  earliest  harbinger  of 
spring.  In  the  sky  there  was  a  momen 
tary  softness  of  tone  which  turned  the 
dial  of  thought  forward  on  the  instant, 
and  we  waited  expectant  for  the  reedy 
note  that  should  tell  us  of  the  coming 
of  the  birds  and  the  freshness  of  the 
early  summer  on  the  woods  and  hills. 
The  illusion  lasts  but  a  moment,  for  the 
March  winds  are  rising,  and  the  gray 
clouds  will  soon  overshadow  the  sky. 
But  fancy  has  been  loosened,  and  will 
not  return  to  its  wonted  subjection  to 
the  work  of  the  day.  The  subject  one 
187 


My  Study  Fire 

is  studying  is  flat,  stale,  and  unprofit 
able  ;  one  no  sooner  settles  down  to  it 
than  the  fragrance  of  the  apple  blossom, 
borne  from  some  silent  field  of  memory 
or  from  some  sunny  orchard  of  the 
imagination,  turns  all  the  eager  search 
for  knowledge  into  ashes.  When  such 
a  mood  comes,  as  come  it  will  when 
prophecies  of  spring  are  abroad,  it  is 
better  to  yield  to  the  spell  than  to  make 
a  futile  resistance. 

There  is  a  volume  close  at  hand  which 
fits  the  day  and  the  mood.  It  is  Richard 
Jefferies's  "  Field  and  Hedgerow,"  the 
last  word  of  one  through  whose  heart 
and  hand  so  much  of  the  ripe  loveliness 
of  the  English  summer  passed  into 
English  speech.  One  has  but  to  open 
its  pages  and  he  finds  himself  between 
the  blossoming  hedges  waiting  for 
that  thrilling  music  which  lies  hidden 
with  the  nightingale  in  the  copse.  I 
give  myself  up  to  the  spell  of  this  beau 
tiful  book,  and  straightway  I  am  loitering 
in  the  wheat  fields ;  I  cross  the  old 
188 


A  Glimpse  of  Spring 

bridge  where  the  once  busy  wheel  has 
grown  decrepit  and  moss-covered  with 
age ;  I  stroll  through  the  deer  park, 
shaded  by  venerable  oaks ;  I  pause  at 
last  in  the  old  village  where  the  repose 
and  quaintness  of  an  earlier  and  more 
rustic  age  still  linger.  Every  flower, 
every  grass,  every  tree,  every  bird,  is 
known  to  my  companion ;  and  he  knows, 
also,  every  road  and  by-path.  Nothing 
escapes  his  eye,  nothing  eludes  the  record 
of  his  memory  :  "  Acres  of  perfume  come 
on  the  wind  from  the  black  and  white 
of  the  bean  field ;  the  firs  fill  the  air  by 
the  copse  with  perfume.  I  know  noth 
ing  to  which  the  wind  has  not  some 
happy  use.  Is  there  a  grain  of  dust  so 
small  the  wind  shall  not  find  it  out? 
Ground  in  the  mill-wheel  of  the  centu 
ries,  the  iron  of  the  distant  mountain 
floats  like  gossamer,  and  is  drank  up  as 
dew  by  leaf  and  living  lung.  A  thousand 
miles  of  cloud  go  by  from  morn  till  night, 
passing  overhead  without  a  sound ;  the 
immense  packs,  a  mile  square,  succeed 
189 


My  Study  Fire 

to  each  other,  side  by  side,  laid  parallel, 
book-shape,  coming  up  from  the  horizon 
and  widening  as  they  approach.  From 
morn  till  night  the  silent  footfalls  of  the 
ponderous  vapours  travel  overhead,  no 
sound,  no  creaking  of  the  wheels  and 
rattling  of  the  chains ;  it  is  calm  at  the 
earth ;  but  the  wind  labours  without  an 
effort  above,  with  such  ease,  with  such 
power.  Gray  smoke  hangs  on  the  hill 
side  where  the  couch-heaps  are  piled,  a 
cumulus  of  smoke ;  the  wind  comes,  and 
it  draws  its  length  along  like  the  genii 
from  the  earthen  pot;  there  leaps  up 
a  great  red  flame,  shaking  its  head ;  it 
shines  in  the  bright  sunlight;  you  can 
see  it  across  the  valley." 

But,  as  I  read,  the  moving  world 
about  me  grows  vague  and  indistinct ; 
I  find  myself  thinking  more  and  more 
of  my  companion.  What  a  glance  is 
his  which  sweeps  the  horizon  and  leaves 
no  stir  of  life  unnoted  ;  which  follows  the 
bird  in  its  flight  and  detects  the  instinct 
which  builds  its  nest  and  evokes  its 
190 


A  Glimpse  of  Spring 

song ;  which  searches  the  field  and  re 
cords  every  change  in  the  tiny  flower 
of  the  grass  !  How  spacious  must  be 
the  mind,  how  full  the  heart,  how  self- 
centred  the  life,  when  one  matches  with 
the  immeasurable  beauty  of  the  world 
the  genius  which  searches  the  heart  of 
it  all !  This  man  surely  must  see  his 
own  way  clear,  must  hold  his  own  course 
without  doubt  or  question,  must  need  no 
aid  of  human  recognition,  while  his  eye 
sees  with  such  unerring  clearness  and  his 
heart  beats  with  the  heart  of  nature  her 
self!  Was  it  so  with  Jefferies?  I  turn 
from  the  book  and  recall  the  story  of 
his  long,  heroic  struggles  with  poverty, 
ending  at  last  in  a  great  agony  of  dis 
ease  and  death.  Not  quite  three  years 
ago  he  wrote :  "  I  received  letters  from 
New  Zealand,  from  the  United  States, 
even  from  the  islands  of  the  Pacific,  from 
people  who  had  read  my  writings.  It 
seemed  so  strange  that  I  should  read 
these  letters,  and  yet  all  the  time  be 
writhing  in  agony."  "  With  truth  I 
191 


My  Study  Fire 

think  I  may  say  that  there  are  few, 
very  few,  perhaps  none,  living  who 
have  gone  through  such  a  series  of 
diseases.  There  are  many  dead  — 
many  who  have  killed  themselves  for 
a  tenth  part  of  the  pain ;  there  are  few 
living."  And  a  friend  has  written  of 
him :  "  Who  can  picture  the  torture  of 
these  long  years  to  him,  denied  as  he 
was  the  strength  to  walk  so  much  as  one 
hundred  yards  in  the  world  he  loved  so 
well  ?  What  hero  like  this,  fighting  with 
Death  face  to  face  so  long,  fearing  and 
knowing,  alas  !  too  well,  that  no  struggles 
could  avail,  and  worse  than  all,  that  his 
dear  ones  would  be  left  friendless  and 
penniless  ?  Thus  died  a  man  whose 
name  will  be  first,  perhaps  forever,  in 
his  own  special  work."  I  turn  to  the 
last  words  written  by  his  pen  three  years 
ago  this  spring :  "  I  wonder  to  myself 
how  they  can  all  get  on  without  me ; 
how  they  manage,  bird  and  flower,  with 
out  ME,  to  keep  the  calendar  for  them. 
.  .  .  They  go  on  without  me,  orchis- 
192 


A  Glimpse  of  Spring 

flower  and  cowslip.  I  cannot  number 
them  all.  I  hear,  as  it  were,  the  patter 
of  their  feet  —  flower  and  buds,  and  the 
beautiful  clouds  that  go  over,  with  the 
sweet  rush  of  rain  and  burst  of  sun-glory 
among  the  leafy  trees.  They  go  on,  and 
I  am  no  more  than  the  least  of  the  empty 
shells  that  strew  the  sward  of  the  hill." 
He  has  told  the  heart  of  his  story  in  a 
sentence  :  "  Three  great  giants  are  against 
me  :  disease,  despair,  and  poverty." 

These  terrible  words,  in  which  the  ut 
termost  agony  of  a  human  soul  speaks, 
blot  out  for  the  moment  the  vision  of 
fair  fields  and  golden  weather ;  and  one 
closes  the  book  and  falls  to  thinking. 
The  story  is  an  old  one ;  it  has  been 
told  of  many  a  great  heart  whose  work 
freights  these  cases  with  the  weight  of 
immortal  thought;  and  it  is  the  con 
sciousness  that  these  teachers  and  sing 
ers,  these  strong,  unconquerable  spirits, 
these  loyal,  aspiring  souls,  have  shared 
with  us  the  common  lot  of  men,  have 
suffered  and  despaired  with  the  great 
13  193 


My  Study  Fire 

army  of  humanity,  which  gives  their 
works  sustaining  power.  These  books, 
in  which  we  read  the  story  of  our  own 
lives,  were  not  the  work  of  demi-gods 
secluded  from  the  uncertainty  and  bit 
terness  of  human  fortune  in  some  serene 
world  of  art ;  our  weaknesses,  our  irreso 
lution,  our  temptations,  our  blindnesses 
and  misgivings,  were  theirs  also.  And  if 
they  have  held  to  the  truth  of  their  visions 
and  the  reality  of  their  ideals,  it  has  not 
been  because  they  escaped  the  common 
lot,  but  because  they  held  their  way 
through  it  with  unshaken  resolution. 
Genius  does  not  separate  its  possessors 
from  their  fellows ;  it  makes  them  the 
more  human  by  its  power  to  uncover  the 
deeps  of  experience,  to  unlock  the  inner 
most  chambers  of  the  heart,  to  enter  into 
all  that  life  is  and  means,  not  only  to 
one's  self  but  to  humanity.  No  human 
soul  that  comes  to  full  self-knowledge 
escapes  the  penalty  of  growth  into  truth 
and  power  :  the  penalty  of  pain,  of  doubt 
and  uncertainty,  of  misconceptions  of 
194 


A  Glimpse  of  Spring 

spirit  and  purpose ;  of  bitter  struggle 
to  make  hard  facts  the  helpers  in  the 
search  and  strife  for  freedom  and  ful 
ness  of  life ;  of  long  waiting ;  of  the 
sense  of  loneliness  among  one's  fellows  ; 
of  the  slow  achievement  through  faith 
and  patience. 

It  has  been  said  that  the  pathos  of 
antique  life  lay  in  the  contrast  between 
the  beauty  of  the  world  and  man's  few 
and  broken  years  ;  and  that  the  pathos 
of  mediaeval  life  lay  in  the  contrast  be 
tween  the  same  beauty  become  a  mani 
fold  temptation,  and  the  soul  of  man,  a 
stranger  amid  its  shows  and  splendours, 
lodged  in  a  cell  while  the  heavens  were 
blue,  scourged  and  fasting  while  birds 
and  wind  sang  the  universal  song  of 
joy  and  freedom.  The  pathos  of  all 
time  and  life  is  the  contrast  between  the 
illimitable  thirst  and  the  unsatisfying 
draught,  between  the  flying  ideal  and 
the  lagging  real,  between  the  dream  and 
the  accomplishment,  between  aspiration 
and  capacity  and  power  on  the  one  hand, 
195 


My  Study  Fire 

and  change,  limitation,  disease,  and  death 
on  the  other.  Literature  knows  this 
pathos  but  too  well ;  the  pathos  to 
which  no  great  soul  and  no  great  life 
is  ever  alien. 

The  book  has  long  since  slipped  from 
my  hand,  and  a  sombre  shadow  seems  to 
have  quenched  the  glow  of  the  fire.  Out 
of  the  window  the  world  lies  cold  and 
cheerless ;  bitter  winds  are  abroad ;  the 
leaden  sky  is  hidden  by  a  flurry  of  snow. 
Winter  is  supreme  everywhere.  But  the 
faint  colour  on  the  willows  silently  speaks 
of  softer  skies  and  golden  weather  ! 


196 


Chapter  XXII 

A  Primeval  Mood 

THE  early  spring  days  come 
freighted  with  strange,  vague 
longings ;  there  is  in  them  some  subtle 
breath  of  the  unconfined,  universal  life- 
spirit,  which  fills  us  with  a  momentary 
antagonism  to  all  our  habits,  customs, 
and  occupations,  and  inspires  us  with  a 
desire  to  be  free  of  all  obligations,  duties, 
and  responsibilities.  The  primitive  law 
lessness  in  our  blood  seems  to  stir 
dimly  with  the  first  movements  of  life 
under  the  sod  and  within  the  silence  of 
the  woods.  Some  long-forgotten  exist 
ence,  antedating  all  our  institutions  and 
the  very  beginnings  of  society,  is  dimly 
reflected  in  the  depths  of  consciousness, 
and  makes  us  restless  with  desire  to  re 
possess  ourselves  of  a  lost  knowledge, 
to  recover  a  whole  epoch  of  primitive 
197 


My  Study  Fire 

experience  faded  to  the  vaguest  of  shad 
ows  in  the  memory. 

I  am  not  sure  that  Rosalind  will  enter 
into  this  mood,  or  that,  if  she  should, 
she  would  think  it  profitable  or  health 
ful.  I  keep  it  to  myself,  therefore ; 
feeling  quite  safe,  within  the  circle  of 
light  which  falls  from  the  shaded  lamp 
about  her,  from  all  heathenish  and  un 
civilised  impulses.  Indeed,  I  think  it 
would  be  better  if  we  could  feel,  amid 
our  intense  activities  to-day,  a  little  more 
of  the  pulse  of  the  free  and  trustful  life 
which  lies  like  a  forgotten  page  at  the 
beginning  of  the  great  volume  of  human 
history.  Progress  and  civilisation  are 
normal,  healthful,  inevitable ;  it  takes 
very  little  knowledge  and  thought  to  de 
tect  the  fundamental  error  in  Rousseau's 
theories  of  the  natural  state  of  man,  or 
in  the  occasional  play  of  intellectual  wil- 
fiilness  which  declares  for  barbarism  as 
more  normal  and  noble  than  civilisation. 
Nevertheless,  there  are  certain  things 
which  men  are  likely  to  lose  in  the  swift 
198 


A  Primeval  Mood 

movement  of  modern  life  which  have 
always  been  among  their  best  posses 
sions.  Freshness  of  perception,  a  sen 
sitive  mental  retina,  openness  to  the 
unobtrusive  but  wonderfully  significant 
procession  of  star  and  flower  and  storm- 
cloud —  these  are  among  the  precious 
things  which  men  have  largely  lost  by 
the  way.  The  intense  introspection  of 
modern  life  has  given  us  a  marvellously 
rich  literature  of  subjective  observation 
and  meditation ;  but  we  are  in  danger 
of  missing  the  freshness,  the  joy,  the 
poetic  impressiveness  of  the  world  that 
lies  within  the  empire  of  the  senses. 
This  thought  was  in  Wordsworth's  mind 
when  he  wrote  that  profound  and  mov 
ing  sonnet: 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us ;  late  and  soon, 
Getting     and     spending,    we   lay    waste     our 

powers : 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours ; 

We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon! 
This  sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon  ; 
The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours 
199 


My  Study  Fire 

And  are  up-gather'd  now  like  sleeping  flowers  — 

For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune ; 
It  moves  us  not.     Great  God  !  I'd  rather  be 

A  pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn, 
So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 

Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  for 
lorn  ; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea, 

Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 

The  note  of  revolt  in  these  striking 
lines  is  not  unfamiliar  to  men  and 
women  in  whom  the  poetic  mood  sur 
vives  and  at  times  asserts  itself  with  the 
momentary  tyranny  of  a  king  who  has 
forgotten  that  he  is  dethroned.  In 
every  healthful  nature  there  must  be  an 
outlet  into  the  ancient  life  of  fresh  im 
pressions,  of  senses  still  unsubdued  to 
the  work  of  the  calculating  intellect,  of 
impulses  still  vigorous  with  unspent 
vitality.  It  is  to  satisfy  this  craving 
that  some  men  find  themselves  drawn 
irresistibly  at  times  to  the  Odyssey,  with 
its  free,  fresh  life  of  movement  and 
action ;  it  is  because  the  great  race 
legends  of  the  Scandinavian,  the  German, 
200 


A  Primeval  Mood 

and  the  Celt  have  this  breath  of  the 
morning  upon  them  that  they  take  pos 
session  of  the  imagination  and  stir  such 
vague  but  passionate  responses  within  us. 
It  is  to  satisfy  this  craving,  no  doubt, 
that  a  young  poet  now  and  then  gives 
rein  to  his  imagination,  and  celebrates 
his  freedom  in  verse  better  suited  to 
Bacchic  and  other  lost  pagan  moods 
than  to  modern  ears  ;  and,  recalling  the 
exuberant  vitality  of  such  a  youth  as 
Goethe's  before  it  had  learned  that  obe 
dience  is  the  only  road  to  freedom,  we 
are  not  surprised  to  hear  him  say  to 
Merck  in  the  early  Weimar  days :  "  We 
are  somewhat  mad  here,  and  play  the 
devil's  own  game." 

While  I  had  been  letting  my  thoughts 
run  in  this  riotous  fashion  Rosalind  had 
been  intently  reading  Maurice  de  Guerin. 
Suddenly  she  looked  up  from  the  book 
and  read  aloud  some  striking  sentences 
from  that  exquisite  piece  of  poetic  in 
terpretation,  the  "  Centaur."  The  old 
Centaur  is  telling  the  story  of  his  won- 

201 


My  Study  Fire 

derful  early  life,  with  its  seclusion,  its  un 
fettered  freedom,  its  kinship  with  nature, 
its  nearness  to  the  gods.  There  is  in 
the  story  a  deep  sincerity,  a  simplicity,  a 
strange  familiarity  with  the  secrets  and 
mysteries  of  nature,  which  never  cease  to 
touch  me  as  a  kind  of  new  power  in  lit 
erature.  The  Centaur  describes  his  wild, 
far  wanderings  through  the  deep  valleys 
and  along  the  mountain  summits  until 
the  evening  shadows  begin  to  fill  the  re 
cesses  of  the  remoter  hills.  "  But  when 
Night,  filled  with  the  charm  of  the  gods, 
overtook  me  on  the  slopes  of  the  moun 
tain,  she  guided  me  to  the  mouth  of  the 
caverns,  and  there  tranquillised  me  as 
she  tranquillises  the  billows  of  the  sea. 
Stretched  across  the  threshold  of  my 
retreat,  my  flanks  hidden  within  the  cave, 
and  my  head  under  the  open  sky,  I 
watched  the  spectacle  of  the  dark.  The 
sea  gods,  it  is  said,  quit  during  the  hours 
of  darkness  their  places  under  the  deep ; 
they  seat  themselves  on  the  promon 
tories,  and  their  eyes  wander  over  the 
202 


A  Primeval  Mood 

expanse  of  the  waves.  Even  so  I  kept 
watch,  having  at  my  feet  an  expanse  of 
life  like  the  hushed  sea.  My  regards  had 
free  range,  and  travelled  to  the  most  dis 
tant  points.  Like  sea  beaches  which 
never  lose  their  wetness,  the  line  of 
mountains  to  the  west  retained  the  im 
print  of  gleams  not  perfectly  wiped  out 
by  the  shadows.  In  that  quarter  still 
survived,  in  pale  clearness,  mountain 
summits  naked  and  pure.  There  I  be 
held  at  one  time  the  god  Pan  descend 
ever  solitary;  at  another,  the  choir  of  the 
mystic  divinities ;  or  I  saw  some  moun 
tain  nymph  charm-struck  by  the  night. 
Sometimes  the  eagles  of  Mount  Olympus 
traversed  the  upper  sky,  and  were  lost  to 
view  among  the  far-off  constellations  or 
in  the  shade  of  the  dreaming  forests." 

I  cannot  describe  the  eloquence  of 
these  words  as  Rosalind  read  them,  with 
rising  colour  and  deepening  tone ;  the 
eloquence  of  the  imagination  narrating 
the  past,  and  making  its  most  wondrous 
forms  live  again.  The  secret  of  the  Gen- 
203 


My  Study  Fire 

taur  perished  with  him,  but  not  the  charm 
of  his  life.  The  wild,  free  range  of  being, 
with  vision  of  descending  deities  and 
spell-bound  nymphs ;  the  fellowship  with 
mighty  forces  that  science  has  never 
tamed ;  the  sway  of  impulses  that  rise 
out  of  the  vast  unconscious  life  of  nature 
—  these  still  penetrate  at  times  our  habits 
and  occupations,  and  find  our  hearts  fresh 
and  responsive.  It  is  then  that  we  draw 
away  from  men  for  a  season,  and  become 
one  of  those  of  whom  the  same  wise  Cen 
taur  said  that  they  had  "  picked  up  on 
the  waters  or  in  the  woods,  and  carried 
to  their  lips,  some  pieces  of  the  reed  pipe 
thrown  away  by  the  god  Pan.  From 
that  hour  these  mortals,  having  caught 
from  their  relics  of  the  god  a  passion  for 
wild  life,  or  perhaps  smitten  with  some 
secret  madness,  enter  into  the  wilderness, 
plunge  among  the  forests,  follow  the 
course  of  the  streams,  bury  themselves  in 
the  heart  of  the  mountains,  restless,  and 
haunted  by  an  unknown  purpose." 


204 


Chapter  XXIII 

The  Method  of  Genius 

ROSALIND  had  been  so  absorbed 
in  reading  Mr.  Lowell's  essay  on 
Gray  that  she  had  not  noted  the  slow 
sinking  of  the  fire  ;  it  was  only  when  she 
had  finished  that  noble  piece  of  criticism 
and  laid  aside  the  volume  that  she  became 
suddenly  conscious  of  her  lapse  of  duty, 
and  began  to  make  vigorous  reparation 
for  her  oversight.  For  a  moment  the 
flame  crept  cautiously  along  the  edges  of 
the  wood ;  and  then,  taking  heart  from 
glowing  fellowship,  suddenly  burst  into 
full  blaze  and  answered  the  roaring  wind 
without  with  its  own  note  of  defiance.  I 
sat  quietly  behind  my  desk,  enjoying  the 
various  charming  pictures,  framed  in 
mingled  light  and  shadow,  which  Rosa 
lind's  struggle  with  the  fire  seemed  to 
project  into  the  room.  I  am  sure  that 
205 


My  Study  Fire 

the  charm  is  in  her,  and  that  the  illusive 
play  of  imagination,  the  soft  and  wander 
ing  glow  touching  now  a  book  and  now 
a  picture,  the  genial  warmth  which  per 
vades  the  place,  are  really  a  subtle  ma 
terialisation  of  her  qualities.  For  me  at 
least,  the  fire  loses  its  gentle  monotone 
of  consolation  when  her  face  is  not  trans 
figured  by  it,  and  I  enjoy  it  most  when  I 
feel  most  deeply  that  it  is  but  a  symbol 
of  that  which  she  has  added  to  my  life. 

I  was  saying  that  Rosalind  had  been 
reading  Mr.  Lowell's  essay  on  Gray. 
When  she  had  stirred  the  smouldering 
flame  into  a  blaze,  she  opened  the  book 
again  and  read  aloud  here  and  there  a 
luminous  criticism,  or  one  of  those  per 
fect  felicities  of  style  which  thrill  one  as 
with  a  sudden  music.  When  she  had 
finished  she  said,  with  a  half-sigh  :  "  I 
am  sure  there  can  be  but  one  pleasure 
greater  than  the  reading  of  such  a  piece 
of  work,  and  that  is  the  writing  of  it. 
Why  does  it  kindle  my  imagination  so 
powerfully  ?  why  does  it  make  every- 
206 


The  Method  of  Genius 

thing  I  have  read  lately  seem  thin  and 
cold  ?  " 

There  is  a  soft  glow  on  her  face  as  she 
asks  this  question,  which  I  cannot  help 
thinking  is  the  most  charming  tribute 
ever  paid  even  to  Mr.  Lowell,  a  writer 
fortunate  beyond  most  men  of  genius 
in  the  recognition  of  his  contemporaries. 
The  question  and  the  face  tempt  me 
away  from  desk  and  my  task,  and  invite 
me  to  the  easy-chair  from  whence  I  have 
so  often  studied  the  vagaries  of  the  rest 
less  fire.  Rosalind's  question  goes  to  the 
very  heart  of  the  greatest  of  the  arts,  and 
has  a  personal  interest  because  she  takes 
as  her  text  one  of  the  best  known  and 
best  loved  of  the  friends  whose  silent 
speech  makes  this  room  eloquent.  The 
second  series  of  "  Among  My  Books  " 
lies  on  the  desk  at  my  hand,  and  as  I 
open  it  at  random  the  eye  falls  on  these 
words  from  the  essay  on  Dante:  "The 
man  behind  the  verse  is  far  greater  than 
the  verse  itself,  and  the  impulse  he  gives 
to  what  is  deepest  and  most  sacred  in  us, 
207 


My  Study  Fire 

though  we  cannot  always  explain  it,  is 
none  the  less  real  and  lasting.  Some 
men  always  seem  to  remain  outside  their 
work;  others  make  their  individuality 
felt  in  every  part  of  it  —  their  very  life 
vibrates  in  every  verse,  and  we  do  not 
wonder  that  it  has  fmade  them  lean  for 
many  years.'  The  virtue  that  has  gone 
out  of  them  abides  in  what  they  do. 
The  book  such  a  man  makes  is  indeed, 
as  Milton  called  it,  f  the  precious  life- 
blood  of  a  master  spirit.'  Theirs  is  a 
true  immortality,  for  it  is  their  soul,  and 
not  their  talent,  that  survives  in  their 
work." 

"  There,"  I  said,  "  is  the  answer  to 
your  question  from  the  only  person  who 
can  speak  with  authority  on  that  matter. 
What  you  feel  in  that  essay  on  Gray, 
and  what  I  always  feel  in  reading  Lowell, 
is  not  the  skill  of  a  marvellously  trained 
hand,  but  the  movement  of  a  large,  rich 
nature  to  whom  life  speaks  through  the 
whole  range  of  experience,  and  who  has 
met  that  constant  inflow  of  truth  with  a 
208 


The  Method  of  Genius 

quiet  nobleness  of  mind  and  heart.  Mr. 
Lowell  seems  to  me  pre-eminently  the 
man  of  genius  as  distinguished  from  the 
man  of  talent ;  the  man,  that  is,  who 
holds  heart  and  mind  in  close,  uncon 
scious  fellowship  with  the  whole  move 
ment  of  life,  as  opposed  to  the  man  who 
attempts  to  get  at  the  heart  of  these 
things  by  intellectual  dexterity.  The 
great  mass  of  writing  is  done  by  men  of 
talent,  and  that  is  the  reason  why  this 
account  of  Gray  makes  what  you  have 
been  reading  lately  seem  cold  and  thin. 
There  is  in  this  essay  a  vein  of  gold  of 
which  Mr.  Lowell  is  perhaps  uncon 
scious  ;  it  is  the  presence  of  his  own 
nature  which  gives  his  piece  of  criticism 
that  indescribable  quality  which  every 
human  soul  recognises  at  once  as  a  new 
revelation  of  itself. 

"  The  man  of  talent  is  simply  a  trained 
hand,  a  dexterity  which  can  be  turned  at 
will  in  any  direction ;  this  is  the  kind  of 
literary  faculty  which  abounds  just  now, 
and  is  so  sure  of  itself  that  it  denies  the 
14  209 


My  Study  Fire 

very  existence  of  genius.  The  man  of 
genius,  on  the  other  hand,  is  a  large,  rich 
nature,  with  an  ear  open  to  every  whisper 
of  human  experience,  and  a  heart  that 
interprets  the  deepest  things  to  itself 
before  they  have  become  conscious  in 
the  thought.  The  man  of  genius  lives 
deeply,  widely,  royally ;  and  the  best 
expression  he  ever  gives  of  himself  is 
but  a  faint  echo  of  the  world-melodies 
that  fill  his  soul.  When  such  a  man 
writes,  he  does  not  draw  upon  a  special 
fund  of  information  and  observation ; 
the  universe  of  truth  lies  about  him, 
and  rises  like  an  inexhaustible  fountain 
within  him.  One  feels  in  the  work  of 
such  a  man  as  Lowell  the  presence,  to 
use  Ruskin's  phrase,  not  of  a  great  effort, 
but  of  a  great  force.  There  is  no  sug 
gestion  of  limitation,  no  hint  that  one 
has  reached  the  end  of  his  resources;  on 
the  contrary,  there  is  present  the  inde 
finable  atmosphere  of  an  opulent  nature, 
whose  wealth  is  equal  to  all  draughts, 
and  whose  capital  remains  unimpaired 

2IO 


The  Method  of  Genius 

by  the  greatest  enterprises.  Shake 
speare  was  not  impoverished  by  £  Ham 
let,'  nor  Goethe  by  c  Faust.'  c  To  be 
able  to  set  in  motion  the  greatest  sub 
jects  of  thought  without  any  sense  of 
fatigue,'  says  Amiel,  f  to  be  greater  than 
the  world,  to  play  with  one's  strength  — 
this  is  what  makes  the  well-being  of 
intelligence,  the  Olympic  festival  of 
thought.' " 

The  fire,  which  had  been  burning 
meditatively  during  this  discourse,  sank 
at  this  point  into  a  bed  of  glowing  coals, 
and  I  took  breath  long  enough  to  re 
plenish  it  with  a  fresh  stick  or  two. 
Rosalind  meanwhile  had  taken  up  her 
sewing. 

"  Don't  you  believe,  then,  in  an  art  of 
literature  apart  from  life  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  To  begin  with,"  I  answered,  "  there 
is  no  such  thing  as  a  separation  of  art 
from  life ;  it  is  modern  misconception 
which  not  only  separates  them,  but  sets 
them  in  contrast.  A  true  art  is  impos 
sible  apart  from  life ;  the  man  of  genius 

211 


My  Study  Fire 

always  restores  this  lost  harmony.  The 
man  of  talent  divorces  his  skill  from  life, 
the  man  of  genius  subordinates  his  train 
ing  to  the  truth  which  speaks  through 
him.  To  him  art  is  not  mere  skill,  but 
that  perfect  reproduction  of  ideal  life 
which  the  world  gains  when  Pheidias 
gives  it  the  Olympian  Zeus,  Raphael 
the  Sistine  Madonna,  and  Dante  the 
Divine  Comedy.  Mr.  Lowell  is  the 
greatest  of  our  poets  because  his  trained 
hand  moves  in  such  subtle  harmony  with 
his  noble  thought.  He  wears  £  all  that 
weight  of  learning  lightly  as  a  flower.' 
The  impulses  of  a  man  of  genius  come 
from  life ;  they  are  deep,  rich,  vital ; 
they  rise  out  of  the  invisible  depths  of 
his  consciousness  as  the  unseen  mists 
rise  out  of  the  mighty  abyss  of  the  sea ; 
and  as  the  clouds  take  form  and  become 
the  splendour  and  the  nourishment  of 
toiling  continents,  so  do  these  impulses 
become  distinct  and  articulate,  and  touch 
life  at  last  with  an  indescribable  beauty 
and  strength.  On  the  other  hand,  the 

212 


The  Method  of  Genius 

impulses  of  a  man  of  talent  spring 
from  skill,  knowledge,  the  desire  and 
profit  of  the  moment.  The  deepest 
truth  is  not  born  of  conscious  striving, 
but  comes  in  the  quiet  hour  when  a 
noble  nature  gives  itself  into  the  keep 
ing  of  life,  to  suffer,  to  feel,  to  think, 
and  to  act  as  it  is  moved  by  a  wisdom 
not  its  own.  The  product  of  literary 
skill  is  a  piece  of  mechanism  —  some 
thing  made  and  dexterously  put  together 
in  the  broad  light  of  the  workshop ;  the 
work  of  genius  is  always  a  miracle  of 
growth,  hidden  from  all  eyes,  nourished 
and  expanded  by  the  invisible  forces  which 
sustain  the  universe." 

At  this  point  I  became  suddenly  con 
scious  that  my  hobby  was  in  full  canter, 
and  that  Rosalind  might  be  the  unwill 
ing  spectator  of  a  solitary  race  against 
time. 

"  My  dear,"  I  said,  "  your  question 
must  bear  the  responsibility  of  this  dis 
course.  There  are  some  names  so  rich 
in  associations  with  one's  intellectual  life, 


My  Study  Fire 

so  suggestive  of  the  best  and  truest 
things,  that  they  have  a  kind  of  a  mag 
ical  power  over  our  minds ;  they  are 
open  sesames  to  about  all  there  is  in 
us." 


Chapter  XXIV 

A  Hint  from  the  Season 

THIS  afternoon,  when  Rosalind 
came  in  from  her  walk,  she 
brought  an  indefinable  atmosphere  of 
spring  with  her.  I  was  not  surprised 
when  she  said  that  she  had  seen  a  blue 
bird  ;  I  should  hardly  have  been  sur 
prised  if  she  had  told  me  the  summer 
was  at  our  doors,  and  the  fire  must  go 
out  that  the  hearth  might  be  swept 
and  garnished.  There  are  times  when 
prophecy  is  swiftly  fulfilled  by  the  im 
agination,  and  turns  into  history  under 
our  very  eyes.  For  days  past  there 
have  been  harbingers  of  change  on  every 
hand ;  and  fancy,  taking  the  clues  so 
magically  dropped  here  and  there  in  field 
and  sky,  travels  with  swift  flight  onward 
to  the  songs  and  flowers  of  June.  This 
evening  the  season  has  wrought  its  spell 


My  Study  Fire 

upon  us  ;  and  while  we  have  listened  to 
the  winds  of  March,  and  watched  the 
shifting  outlines  of  the  fire,  our  thoughts 
have  caught  something  of  the  glow  of 
summer.  Rosalind  has  had  various 
house-cleaning  plans  running  through 
her  mind,  no  doubt,  but  she  has  kept 
them  to  herself.  I  believe  in  the  shar 
ing  of  cares,  but  I  admire,  above  all 
things,  the  loving  skill  which  reserves 
the  common  problems  of  the  house 
hold  for  some  fit  hour,  and  keeps  the 
evening  intact  for  sweeter  and  more  in 
spiring  fellowship.  I  sometimes  wonder 
if  a  good  many  women  do  not  lose  that 
touch  of  sentiment  which  is  the  fra 
grance  of  domestic  life,  by  keeping  the 
machinery  too  constantly  within  sight 
and  hearing ;  the  whir  of  the  wheels 
must  be  deadened  if  the  fireside  is  to 
hear  the  best  talk,  and  to  cast  its  magi 
cal  glow  on  the  most  complete  com 
panionship.  The  supreme  charm  of  a 
woman  is  her  atmosphere  ;  and  how  shall 
that  be  serene  and  sunny,  touching  the 
216 


A  Hint  from  the  Season 

life  of  the  home  with  indefinable  colour 
and  fragrance,  if  problems  and  perplex 
ities  are  not  kept  well  in  the  back 
ground  ?  The  women  whose  presence 
is  both  rest  and  inspiration  are  not  as 
numerous  as  they  might  be  if  the  secret 
of  their  charm  were  told  abroad.  This 
is  a  digression,  but,  in  the  ramble,  what 
moments  are  so  delightful  as  those  in 
which  we  stray  from  the  road  to  pluck 
a  wild  flower,  or  to  find  a  fairer  outlook  ? 

"  I  am  not  sure,"  said  Rosalind,  "  that 
I  should  care  for  perpetual  sunshine. 
One  values  a  beautiful  thing  most  when 
it  appeals  to  a  fresh  perception  of  its 
charm.  I  don't  believe  I  should  enjoy 
summer  half  so  much  if  it  were  always 
at  hand." 

I  was  thinking  the  same  thought,  but 
with  a  different  application.  I  had  just 
been  reading  one  of  those  perverse  writ 
ers  who  are  always  sure  that  their  own 
age  is  the  worst  in  all  history,  and  their 
own  country  the  most  depraved  in  the 
world.  If  they  would  only  add  that 
217 


My  Study  Fire 

they  themselves  were  the  most  mislead 
ing  of  writers,  I  could  offset  the  truth 
of  the  last  statement  against  the  false 
hood  of  the  other  propositions,  and  feel 
that  something  had  been  gained.  The 
particular  prophet  to  whose  monody  I 
had  been  giving  a  few  moments  of  half 
hearted  attention  had  assured  me  that  we 
have  come  to  the  end  of  poetry  and  all 
great  work  of  the  imagination,  and  have 
entered  upon  a  period  of  final  decadence. 
All  noble  dreams  of  idealism  have  faded, 
and  a  dull  gray  sky  is  henceforth  to  over 
arch  life  and  leave  it  cold  and  colourless. 
This  pessimistic  note  is  familiar  to  all 
readers  of  modern  books ;  they  have 
heard  it  in  all  keys,  and  with  all  the 
varied  modulations  of  literary  skill. 
Renan  has  sung  the  swan-song  of  the 
noble  idealism  of  the  past  in  his  limpid 
and  beguiling  French  periods,  and  Eng 
lish  and  American  pens  have  taken  up 
the  burden  of  the  refrain  and  set  it  to  a 
varied  and  seductive  music.  The  swan- 
song  has  become  to  many  sensitive  spir- 
218 


A  Hint  from  the  Season 

its  a  veritable  siren  melody,  luring  them 
away  from  all  noble  effort  and  action. 
These  thoughts  were  in  my  mind  as  I 
gave  the  fire  an  energetic  stirring  to 
express  my  deep  and  growing  aversion 
to  the  gospel  of  disillusion  which  is  fast 
substituting  for  the  prophetic  dream  of 
the  imagination  the  nightmare  of  despair. 
"  I  do  not  understand,"  I  said,  as  I  sank 
back  into  my  easy-chair,  "  why  men  who 
write  books  will  not  occasionally  look 
out  of  the  windows  of  their  libraries  and 
take  note  of  the  bluebirds  and  the  gleams 
of  softened  sky.  We  happen  just  now 
to  be  in  a  period  of  comparative  barren 
ness  in  poetry.  We  have  had  within 
this  present  century  a  golden  summer  of 
marvellous  fertility ;  one  has  to  go  back 
a  good  many  seasons  to  recall  another 
so  prodigal  of  colour,  so  full  of  all  man 
ner  of  noble  fruitage.  There  has  fol 
lowed  a  softened  but  beautiful  autumn, 
the  aftermath  of  a  cloudless  day ;  and 
now  has  come  the  inevitable  winter  of 
pause,  silence,  and  apparent  barrenness. 
219 


My  Study  Fire 

Straightway  the  older  men,  recalling  the 
glorious  days  of  their  youth,  fall  to 
moaning  over  the  final  disappearance  of 
summer ;  and  some  of  the  younger  men, 
chilled  by  the  season  and  unable  to  re 
kindle  the  torches  that  have  burnt  out, 
join  in  the  tragic  chorus,  and  give  them 
selves  to  the  writing  of  epitaphs  of  clas 
sical  perfection  of  form  and  more  than 
classical  coldness  of  temper.  There  are 
times  when  one  feels  as  if  most  recent 
poetry  had  been  written  solely  for  mortu 
ary  purposes.  The  chill  of  death  is  on 
it;  one's  only  consolation  in  reading  it 
springs  from  the  conviction  that  it  is 
written  over  an  empty  tomb ;  and  it 
must  be  confessed  that  grief  has  a  hollow 
sound,  even  in  verse  of  classical  correct 
ness,  when  one  knows  that  the  death 
which  it  laments  with  elegiac  elegance 
has  not  actually  taken  place.  For  my 
self,  I  confess  I  am  so  weary  of  the 
funeral  note  of  recent  verse  that  I  have 
gone  back  to  Shakespeare  with  an  al 
most  rapacious  appetite.  An  evening 

220 


A  Hint  from  the  Season 

on  Prospero's  Island,  with  Ariel  hovering 
in  mid-air,  the  invisible  messenger  of 
that  Imagination  which  his  master  em 
bodies,  gives  me  back  the  old  harmo 
nies  of  hope  and  joy  and  life.  The 
music  of  the  sea  that  sings  round  that 
island  is  heard  by  few  mariners  in  these 
melancholy  days.  It  is  significant  that 
the  greatest  writers  are  never  despondent 
or  despairing.  Such  men  as  Homer 
and  Shakespeare  and  Goethe  were  serene 
and  joyous  in  a  world  whose  deeper 
mysteries  were  far  more  real  and  press 
ing  to  them  than  to  the  minor  singers 
of  to-day.  The  trouble  is  not  in  the 
age,  but  in  the  men.  The  man  who 
cannot  be  strong,  cheerful,  creative,  in 
his  own  age,  would  find  all  other  ages 
inhospitable  and  barren." 

Here  I  saw  that  Rosalind  was  about 
to  speak,  if  she  could  get  the  opportunity, 
and  I  generously  gave  it  to  her. 

"  I  quite  agree  with  you,"  was  her 
agreeable  comment ;  "  but  what  did  you 
mean  by  saying  at  the  beginning  that 

221 


My  Study  Fire 

writers  ought  to  look  out  of  their  library 
windows  oftener  ? " 

"  I  'm  glad  you  reminded  me  of  my 
text,"  I  answered.  "The  point  of  what 
I  have  been  saying  was  in  that  remark. 
In  the  world  of  thought,  imagination, 
and  feeling,  seed-time  and  harvest  are  or 
dained  quite  as  distinctlyas  in  the  world  of 
fruits  and  flowers.  There  are  epochs  of 
splendid  fertility,  and  there  are  epochs 
of  sterility.  It  is  by  no  accident  that  one 
age  is  silent  and  the  next  flooded  with 
melody.  The  tide  of  creative  impulse 
ebbs  and  flows  under  a  law  which  has  not 
been  discovered;  but  the  return  of  the 
tide  is  no  less  certain  than  its  ebb.  Why, 
then,  should  men  of  talent  wander  up 
and  down  a  beach  from  which  the  waters 
have  receded,  wringing  their  hands  and 
adding  a  hollow  moan  to  the  mighty 
monotone  of  the  sea  because  the  tide  will 
return  no  more?  More  than  once,  in 
other  and  parallel  ages,  these  melancholy 
cries  have  been  drowned  by  the  incoming 
tides.  Life  is  inexhaustible,  and  he  must 

222 


A  Hint  from  the  Season 

be  blind  indeed  who  does  not  see  in  the 
movements  of  to-day  the  possibilities  of 
a  future  in  which  art  shall  come  nearer 
than  ever  to  human  hearts,  and  add  to 
its  divine  revelation  of  beauty  some  un 
discovered  loveliness." 


223 


Chapter  XXV 

A  Bed  of  Embers 

THERE  is  no  event  in  the  house 
hold  life  so  momentous  as  the 
coming  of  a  friend;  it  is  one  of  the 
events  for  which  the  home  was  built 
and  in  which  its  ideal  is  realised.  "  The 
ornament  of  a  house,"  says  Emerson, 
"is  the  friends  who  frequent  it."  Their 
character,  culture,  aims,  reveal  the  law  of 
its  being;  whether  it  stands  for  show, 
for  mere  luxury,  or  for  large  and  noble 
living.  "  Honour  to  the  house  where 
they  are  simple  to  the  verge  of  hardship  ; 
so  that  there  the  intellect  is  awake  and 
reads  the  laws  of  the  universe,  the  soul 
worships  truth  and  love,  honour  and 
courtesy  flow  into  all  deeds."  How  easy 
it  is  to  collect  handsome  furniture  and 
crowd  a  house  to  suffocation  with  things 
which  give  one  no  impression  of  individ- 
224 


A  Bed  of  Embers 

uality,  but  only  an  impression  of  expense ! 
Elaborate  homes  abound  in  these  days, 
but  for  the  most  part  they  serve  mainly 
to  emphasise  the  vulgarity  of  the  people 
who  inhabit  them  ;  an  elegant  house  is 
a  dangerous  possession  for  those  whose 
social  training  has  not  prepared  them  for 
it.  Such  homes  are  not  without  advan 
tages  to  the  children  who  grow  up  in 
them,  but  the  elders  are  always  out  of 
place  in  them.  The  real  charm  of  a 
home  is  the  indefinable  atmosphere  which 
pervades  it,  made  up  of  the  personalities 
who  live  in  it,  of  the  friends  who  fre 
quent  it,  of  the  pictures  which  hang  upon 
its  walls,  the  books  which  lie  upon  its 
tables,  and  all  its  furnishings  which  dis 
close  taste,  training,  and  character.  Many 
elegant  houses  impress  one  with  a  painful 
materialism ;  even  when  all  things  are  in 
keeping  there  is  an  elaboration  which 
offends  the  mind  by  making  too  much 
of  bodily  comfort  and  mere  physical  lux 
ury.  The  highest  intellectual  and  social 
types  are  not  likely  to  be  developed  in 
15  225 


My  Study  Fire 

such  an  atmosphere;  Attic  rather  than 
Asiatic  influences  have  inspired  the  finest 
social  life.  The  first  and  final  impression 
of  a  house  should  come,  not  from  fur 
niture,  but  from  those  material  things 
which  stand  for  thought,  for  beauty,  for 
the  ideal.  I  should  shrink  from  creating 
a  home  which  people  should  remember 
for  its  ministration  to  their  bodies ;  that 
kind  of  service  can  be  bought  at  the  inn  ; 
I  should  count  myself  fortunate  if  my 
home  were  remembered  for  some  inspir 
ing  quality  of  faith,  charity,  and  aspiring 
intelligence.  One  cannot  write  about  his 
own  home  without  egotism,  for  it  is  the 
best  part  of  himself.  If  I  were  to  write 
about  mine,  as  I  fear  I  am  constantly 
doing,  I  should  simply  write  about  Rosa 
lind.  When  I  think  of  what  home  is 
and  means,  I  understand  the  absolute 
veracity  of  Lowell's  sentiment  that "  many 
make  the  household,  but  only  one  the 
home."  In  every  home  there  is  one 
whose  nature  gives  law  and  beauty  to 
its  life ;  who  builds  it  slowly  out  of  her 
226 


A  Bed  of  Embers 

heart  and  soul,  adorns  it  with  the  out 
ward  and  visible  symbols  of  her  own  in 
ward  and  spiritual  gifts,  and  makes  it  her 
own  by  ministrations  not  to  be  weighed 
and  counted,  so  impalpable,  so  number 
less,  and  so  beyond  all  price  are  they.  But 
of  the  friends  who  pull  one's  latch-string 
and  sit  before  one's  fire  one  may  speak 
without  offence  and  with  infinite  satisfac 
tion  to  himself;  the  coming  and  going 
of  those  who  know  and  love  us  best  form 
the  most  inspiring  records  in  the  domestic 
chronicles. 

Last  night  the  study  fire  burned  late ; 
or  rather  we  sat  by  it  so  late  that  it  was 
only  a  bed  of  embers.  What  a  glow 
came  from  it,  and  what  heat !  The 
blaze  of  the  earlier  evening  yielded  noth 
ing  so  grateful,  so  beautiful,  so  full  of 
appeal  to  the  memory  and  the  imagina 
tion.  We  lingered  long,  and  with  deep 
ening  joy  and  gratitude ;  we  seemed  to 
pause  for  an  hour  between  a  past  rich  in 
memories  and  a  future  affluent  in  hopes. 
We  waited  for  our  friend  to  speak,  and 
227 


My  Study  Fire 

every  time  her  voice  broke  the  silence 
it  seemed  to  recall  some  half-forgotten 
phase  of  a  life  set  to  pure  and  beautiful 
ends,  some  trait  of  a  nature  full  of  a 
sweet  strength  of  mind  and  heart: 

A  soul  serene,  Madonna-like,  enshrined 
In  her  dear  self. 

The  embers  glowed  with  a  soft  and 
genial  heat  which  seemed  to  make  the 
exchange  of  confidences  between  us  easy 
and  natural.  Even  with  those  who  stand 
nearest  to  us  we  can  never  force  one  of 
those  interchanges  of  thought  which 
mark  the  very  best  moments  of  our 
lives ;  they  must  grow  out  of  the  occa 
sion  and  the  mood,  and  they  sometimes 
elude  our  most  patient  endeavours.  In 
the  story  of  "  Faust "  Goethe  undoubt 
edly  meant  to  say,  among  other  things, 
that  a  man  does  not  own  his  soul ;  he 
cannot  barter  it  for  any  price,  because  it 
belongs  to  God.  It  is  certain  that  the 

D 

deeper  self  which  we  call  the  soul  does 

not   hold   itself  at   our   beck   and   call. 

228 


A  Bed  of  Embers 

There  are  hours  when  it  is  inaccessible, 
although  we  make  strenuous  effort  to 
reach  it ;  when  it  is  dumb,  although  we 
urge  it  to  speak.  But  at  the  moment 
when  we  least  expect  such  happiness,  it 
suddenly  reveals  itself  to  us,  and  to  that 
other  whose  atmosphere,  whose  gift  or 
grace  or  accent,  has  somehow  won  its 
confidence  and  inspired  it  with  utterance. 
There  have  been  moments  like  this  in 
our  history  which  seem  to  be,  as  we  look 
back,  the  real  events  in  our  lives  —  those 
events  which  have  made  us  acquainted 
with  our  own  natures,  and  held  open  the 
door  of  life  at  the  same  time.  The 
glowing  embers  sent  a  warm  thrill  into 
our  very  hearts,  and  in  that  warmth  our 
thoughts  seemed  to  flow  together.  Then, 
for  the  first  time,  I  understood  the  real 
sentiment  of  that  residuum  of  fire  and 
heat  which  the  flame  leaves  behind  it. 
The  heart  of  the  fire  survives  the  perish 
ing  of  the  material  which  fed  it ;  that 
has  vanished,  but  its  soul  of  heat  and 
light  remains,  a  beautiful  afterglow.  In 
229 


My  Study  Fire 

some  kindred  sense  friendship  is  the 
survival  of  the  perishable  element  of  the 
years  that  are  gone  ;  actions,  experiences, 
words,  are  mostly  forgotten,  but  the 
trust,  faith,  affection,  that  grew  out  of 
and  through  these  remain  to  give  light 
and  warmth  to  the  later  time.  The  past 
that  has  burned  out,  like  the  flame  of 
the  earlier  evening,  survives  in  these 
glowing  embers,  radiating  heat  and  light. 
As  the  embers  form  the  residuum  of 
that  which  is  gone,  so  do  they  make  the 
surest  foundation  for  future  activity  and 
beauty.  I  have  but  to  lay  a  few  sticks 
across  these  coals,  and  immediately  the 
blaze  is  kindled ;  there  lies  the  com 
pressed  force  of  fire.  There  are  hearths 
on  which  the  glow  never  dies ;  it  is 
kindled  and  rekindled  day  after  day, 
until  it  becomes  a  continuous  fire  from 
season's  end  to  season's  end.  Like  the 
ancient  hearth-fires  from  which  the  Greek 
emigrants  carried  embers  when  they  parted 
from  the  overcrowded  community,  these 
fires  light  each  new  day  and  each  suc- 
230 


A  Bed  of  Embers 

ceeding  month  with  something  from  the 
warmth  and  glow  of  the  day  and  the 
month  that  are  gone.  Friendship  carries 
into  the  future  whatever  was  best  and 
truest  in  our  past  relationships ;  what 
ever  could  be  detached  from  the  perish 
able  forms  in  which  our  lives  express 
and  manifest  themselves.  Each  year 
adds  to  the  accumulations  of  the  past, 
and  levels  still  more  those  invisible  walls 
which  separate  us.  The  solitude  of  life 
is  known  to  us  all ;  for  the  most  part 
we  are  alone,  and  the  voices  of  friends 
come  only  faint  and  broken  across  the 
impassable  gulfs  which  surround  every 
human  soul.  No  one  has  felt  the  pathos 
of  this  solitude  more  keenly  or  given  it 
a  more  deeply  poetic  expression  than 
Matthew  Arnold: 

Yes  !  in  the  sea  of  life  enisled, 

With  echoing  straits  between  us  thrown, 

Dotting  the  shoreless  watery  wild, 
We  mortal  millions  live  alone. 

The  islands  feel  the  enclasping  flow, 

And  then  their  endless  bounds  they  know. 
231 


My  Study  Fire 

But  when  the  moon  their  hollows  lights, 
And  they  are  swept  by  balms  of  spring, 

And  in  their  glens,  on  starry  nights, 
The  nightingales  divinely  sing  ; 

And  lovely  notes,  from  shore  to  shore, 

Across  the  sounds  and  channels  pour  — 

Oh  !  then  a  longing  like  despair 
Is  to  their  farthest  caverns  sent  ; 

For  surely  once,  they  feel,  we  were 
Parts  of  a  single  continent ! 

Now  round  us  spreads  the  watery  plain  — 

Oh,  might  our  marges  meet  again  ! 

Who  order' d  that  their  longing's  fire 
Should  be,  as  soon  as  kindled,  cool'd  ? 

Who  renders  vain  their  deep  desire  ? 
A  God,  a  God  their  severance  ruled  ! 

And  bade  betwixt  their  shores  to  be 

The  unplumbed,  salt,  estranging  sea. 

The  moods  in  which  the  sense  of 
kinship  outweighs  the  sense  of  isola 
tion,  when  the  balms  of  spring  are  in 
the  air,  and  in  the  solitudes  a  divine 
music  is  heard,  come  oftenest  at  the 
bidding  of  the  friend  who  has  journeyed 
with  us  in  the  day  of  action,  and  biv- 
232 


A  Bed  of  Embers 

ouacked  with  us  when  the  night  of 
sorrow  has  fallen  upon  us,  swift  and 
awful,  from  the  shining  skies.  There 
are  those  who  were  born  to  be  our  kins 
men  of  the  soul,  and  whose  voice  reaches 
us  when  all  other  voices  fail.  "  For  the 
rest,  which  we  commonly  call  friends 
and  friendships,"  says  the  wise  Mon 
taigne,  "  are  nothing  but  acquaintance, 
and  familiarities,  either  occasionally  con 
tracted  or  by  some  design,  by  means  of 
which  there  happens  some  little  inter 
course  betwixt  our  souls  :  but  in  the 
friendship  I  speak  of,  they  mix  and 
work  themselves  into  one  piece,  with 
so  universal  a  mixture  that  there  is  no 
more  sign  of  the  seam  by  which  they 
were  first  conjoined.  If  a  man  should 
importune  me  to  give  a  reason  why  I 
loved  him,  I  find  it  could  no  otherwise 
be  exprest  than  by  making  answer, 
because  it  was  he,  because  it  was  I. 
There  is  beyond  I  am  able  to  say,  I 
know  not  what  inexplicable  and  fatal 
power  that  brought  on  this  union." 
233 


My  Study  Fire 

As  we  say  good-night  we  carefully 
cover  the  embers  with  ashes,  which  no 
longer  signify  desolation,  but  the  hus 
banding  of  the  fire  for  to-morrow's 
cheer  and  warmth.  .  Friendship  is 
always  prophetic  of  the  morrow ;  its 
past  is  prophecy  and  promise  of  the 
morrow. 


234 


Chapter  XXVI 

A  Day  out  of  Doors 

AS  I  sit  looking  into  the  study-fire 
my  glance  rests  on  a  pair  of  snow- 
shoes  on  the  broad  chimney  breast,  and 
straightway  fancy  flies  abroad  and  re 
calls  a  glorious  day  of  winter  cheer  and 
exploit. 

A  writer  of  deep  suggestiveness  has 
commented  on  the  superior  advantages 
of  the  man  on  horseback  over  the  man 
on  foot;  but  this  exalted  condition,  which 
in  certain  seasons  gives  one  a  delicious 
sense  of  sovereignty,  affords  neither  ad 
vantage  nor  charm  in  the  northern  climate 
in  midwinter.  The  man  to  whom  all 
things  are  possible  under  these  circum 
stances  is  the  man  on  snow-shoes.  He 
alone  holds  the  key  of  the  snow-belea 
guered  forests  ;  to  him  alone  is  intrusted 
the  right  of  eminent  domain  —  the  privi- 
235 


My  Study  Fire 

lege,  in  other  words,  of  seizing  for  his 
own  use  the  lands  of  his  neighbours  ;  he 
alone  owns  the  landscape.  Great  privi 
leges  never  go  save  in  company  with 
grave  responsibilities,  and  not  unfre- 
quently  with  serious  perils.  No  one 
need  expect,  therefore,  to  be  put  into 
possession  of  the  landscape  except  upon 
conditions  more  or  less  formidable.  The 
snow-shoe  is  a  delightful  feature  of 
decoration ;  how  often  have  we  seen  it 
effectively  displayed  against  a  proper 
background,  and  straightway,  as  if  a 
door  had  been  set  ajar  into  another 
clime,  the  breath  of  winter  has  been  upon 
us,  the  splendour  of  illimitable  fields 
of  snow  has  blinded  us,  and  we  have 
seen  in  a  glance  the  dark  line  of  spruce 
and  fir  as  it  climbs  the  white  peak 
against  the  deep  blue  horizon  line.  But 
the  snow-shoe  has  its  serious  and  even 
humiliating  aspects.  The  novice  who 
ties  it  on  his  moccasin  and  goes  forth  for 
the  first  time  in  rash  and  exulting  con 
fidence  is  likely  to  meet  with  swift  and 
236 


A  Day  out  of  Doors 

calamitous  eclipse.  He  mounts  the  first 
inviting  drift  of  beautiful  snow,  only  to 
disappear  in  a  humiliation  and  perplexity 
from  which  he  emerges  blinded,  breath 
less,  and  whiter  than  the  Polar  bear. 
The  unsympathetic  jeers  of  his  compan 
ions  complete  the  discipline  and  stimulate 
to  further  catastrophes,  which  in  the  end 
work  out  the  peaceful  results  of  wis 
dom  and  training.  But  the  secret  once 
learned,  snow-shoeing  is  thenceforth  a 
measureless  delight. 

Thoreau  declares  that  in  one  sense  we 
cannot  live  too  leisurely.  "  Let  me  not 
live  as  if  time  was  short.  Catch  the  pace 
of  the  seasons,  have  leisure  to  attend  to 
every  phenomenon  of  nature,  and  to  en 
tertain  every  thought  that  comes  to  you. 
Let  your  life  be  a  leisurely  progress 
through  the  volumes  of  nature  .  .  ." 
To  thoroughly  enter  into  the  life  of  na 
ture  one  must  accept  her  mood  at  the 
moment,  and  she  has  as  many  moods  as 
the  mortals  who  seek  her  companionship; 
but  with  all  her  moods  she  is  never 
237 


My  Study  Fire 

moody.  On  a  summer's  day  the  spa 
cious  leisure  of  the  forest  invites  one  to 
complete  cessation  of  effort ;  to  that  pro 
found  repose  which  sets  every  door  ajar 
for  fresh  perceptions  and  new  influences. 
But  on  a  clear,  cold  winter's  morning  a 
very  different  spirit  is  abroad  ;  not  re 
pose,  but  intensity  of  action,  is  solicited. 
There  lies  the  great  world,  from  which 
the  traces  of  individual  ownership  have 
been  almost  obliterated;  who  will  claim 
it,  and  enforce  his  claim  with  absolute 
possession  ?  It  is  in  response  to  this 
inspiring  challenge  that  the  man  on 
snow-shoes  enters  the  field.  If  he  is 
made  of  the  right  stuff  he  has  the  air 
of  a  great  proprietor.  To  him  roads 
and  fences  and  all  artificial  boundary 
lines  are  as  if  they  were  not ;  he  owns 
the  landscape,  and  there  are  moments 
when  he  feels  as  if  the  sky  had  been 
hung  above  his  wide,  free  world  to  give 
him  the  last  and  most  delicate  sensation 
of  adventure.  The  great  joy  of  the 
man  on  snow-shoes  is  the  consciousness 
238 


A  Day  out  of  Doors 

of  freedom.  He  is  released  from  the 
tyranny  of  the  roads  and  the  impertinent 
intrusion  of  fences  ;  places  that  were  once 
forbidden  or  inaccessible  are  now  open  to 
him ;  fields  given  over  to  the  selfishness 
of  agriculture  are  leased  to  nature  for 
the  nobler  uses  of  beauty  and  his  per 
sonal  adventure ;  there  is  no  secluded 
pond  in  the  woods  to  which  he  cannot 
choose  his  own  path  ;  there  is  no  remote 
outlook  across  field  or  swamp  to  which 
he  cannot  swiftly  make  his  way.  The 
great  drifts,  the  long  levels  of  snow  in 
the  open  places,  are  so  many  exhilarat 
ing  opportunities  to  him,  and  he  accepts 
the  invitation  of  nature  to  come  abroad 
with  her  not  as  an  inferior  but  as  an 
equal. 

The  snow-shoe  is  ingeniously  devised 
to  diffuse  man's  ponderosity  over  a  lar 
ger  surface ;  to  enable  him  to  go  by  ar 
tifice  where  the  natural  construction  of 
his  body  would  forbid  his  going.  This 
well  devised  aid  to  escape  from  civilisa 
tion  sets  free  the  mind  at  the  same  time 
239 


My  Study  Fire 

that  it  removes  a  physical  limitation. 
The  man  who  cannot  get  away  from 
himself  on  snow-shoes  is  a  galley  slave 
who  deserves  the  oar  and  will  never 
escape  from  it.  But  most  men  who  find 
themselves  afield  so  equipped  cast  off  all 
bondage  of  mind  to  old  habits  and  lim 
itations  by  an  effort  so  natural  that  it 
is  purely  unconscious.  They  are  filled 
with  an  insatiable  desire  to  take  deep 
breaths,  to  penetrate  every  recess  of  the 
world  about  them,  to  overcome  every 
obstacle  and  leave  nothing  untried.  In 
the  vigorous  morning  air  all  enterprises 
are  open,  and  one  waits  neither  to  count 
the  hours  nor  the  difficulties.  The  earth 
shines  like  the  sky,  and  a  kind  of  inef 
fable  splendour  crowns  the  day.  Level 
field  and  rolling  meadow,  stretch  of  low 
land  and  sweep  of  mountain,  unbroken 
surface  of  lake  and  curving  whiteness  of 
river  losing  itself  behind  the  hills — all 
these  lie  within  the  vision  and  invite  ex 
ploration.  The  dark  green  masses  of 
pine  and  spruce  rest  the  eye  dazzled  by 
240 


A  Day  out  of  Doors 

the  universal  brilliancy.  The  mountains 
have  a  marvellous  delicacy  and  charm; 
instead  of  presenting  a  flat  surface  of 
dead  white  they  reveal  a  thousand  soft 
and  rounded  outlines ;  each  tree  is  indi 
vidualised  and  stands  out  in  clear  and 
perfect  symmetry,  and  every  branch  and 
leaf  is  white  with  exquisite  frost  work. 
At  sunset,  when  the  last  tender  light  of 
the  winter  day  falls  on  those  deep,  rich 
masses  of  frost  tracery,  one  will  see  a 
vanishing  loveliness  as  tender  as  the 
flush  of  the  rose  leaf  and  as  ethereal  as 
the  light  of  a  solitary  star  when  it  first 
touches  the  edges  of  the  hills.  The  day 
ends  in  Hesperian  splendour. 

But,  fortunately,  the  day  is  still  in  its 
prime,  and,  as  one  chooses  the  deepest 
drift  and  climbs  to  the  top  of  the  near 
est  hill,  he  wishes  it  might  never  end. 
Arrived  at  the  summit,  breathless  and 
exultant,  he  looks  for  the  hollow  which 
has  caught  the  drifts,  and,  after  a  mo 
ment's  rest,  he  runs  swiftly  down  to 
the  pond  below,  sliding  on  the  crusts, 

16  241 


My  Study  Fire 

and  moving  more  slowly  and  cautiously 
over  light  snow  of  whose  depth  and 
yielding  quality  he  has  perhaps  already 
had  sad  experience.  The  level  surface 
of  the  pond  lacks  that  variety  which  is 
the  charm  of  snow-shoeing,  and  so  one 
skirts  the  shore  and  takes  the  first  ac 
cessible  opening  into  the  woods  ;  and 
now  delight  and  danger  are  mixed  in 
the  most  delicious  compound.  The 
remoteness,  the  silence,  and  the  solitude 
of  the  winter  woods  are  simply  enchant 
ing  ;  the  sky  is  softly  blue  between  the 
"bare,  ruined  choirs  where  late  the  sweet 
birds  sang  ;  "  every  twig  is  snow-bound, 
and  the  only  evidence  of  life  is  the  track 
of  the  rabbit  or  the  fox.  One  tramps 
on,  jubilant  and  self-forgetful,  until  sud 
denly  some  unseen  root  catches  in  the 
interstices  of  the  snow-shoe,  and  then 
alas  for  human  greatness !  But  the  dis 
aster  is  only  momentary  —  is,  indeed, 
part  of  the  novel  and  fascinating  experi 
ence.  On  and  on  through  the  deep 
recesses  of  the  forest  one  makes  his  way, 
242 


A  Day  out  of  Doors 

and  at  every  turn  some  lovely  or  impres 
sive  wintry  scene  frames  itself  for  perma 
nent  hanging  in  the  memory.  Now  it 
is  a  little  snow-covered  hollow  where  one 
is  sure  the  mosses  grow  thick  in  sum 
mer  ;  now  it  is  a  solitary  tree  whose 
tracery  of  branches  is  exquisitely  etched 
against  the  sky ;  now  it  is  a  side  hill 
swiftly  descending  to  the  narrow  brook, 
the  music  of  whose  running  still  lingers 
softly  cadenced  in  the  ear  of  memory ; 
now  it  is  a  sudden  glimpse  of  the  moun 
tains  that  rise  in  the  wide  silence  and 
solitude  like  primeval  altars  whose  lofty 
fires  are  lighted  at  sunrise  and  sunset ; 
and  now,  as  one  leaves  the  forest  behind, 
the  last  picture  is  the  river  winding 
through  the  dark,  wild  mountain  gorge, 
its  waters  rushing  impatient  and  tumul 
tuous  over  the  ice  that  strives  in  vain  to 
fetter  them. 

The  short  day  is  already  hurrying  to 

its  close ;  but  its  brevity  has  no  power 

over  the  memories  one  has  plucked  from 

wood  and  field.     Reluctantly  one  hurries 

243 


My  Study  Fire 

homeward.  The  smoke  from  the  little 
village  in  the  hollow  rises  in  straight 
white  lines  above  every  house,  and  as 
one  pauses  for  a  moment,  before  de 
scending,  to  take  in  the  picture,  one 
recalls  a  similar  moment  of  which  Tho- 
reau  has  preserved  the  fleeting  impres 
sion  :  "  The  windows  on  the  skirts  of  the 
village  reflect  the  setting  sun  with  intense 
brilliancy,  a  dazzling  glitter,  it  is  so  cold. 
Standing  thus  on  one  side  of  the  hill,  I 
begin  to  see  a  pink  light  reflected  from 
the  snow  about  fifteen  minutes  before 
the  sun  sets.  This  gradually  deepens  to 
purple  and  violet  in  some  places,  and  the 
pink  is  very  distinct,  especially  when, 
after  looking  at  the  simply  white  snow 
on  other  sides,  you  turn  your  eyes  to 
the  hill.  Even  after  all  direct  sunlight 
is  withdrawn  from  the  hill-top,  as  well  as 
from  the  valley  in  which  you  stand,  you 
see,  if  you  are  prepared  to  discern  it,  a 
faint  and  delicate  tinge  of  purple  and 
violet  there."  But  the  vanishing  beauty 
of  this  hour  eludes  even  the  pencil  of 
244 


A  Day  out  of  Doors 

Thoreau,  and  as  you  take  off  your  snow- 
shoes  you  are  aware  that  you  have  be 
come  the  possessor  of  a  day  which  you 
will  always  long  to  share  with  others, 
but  the  memory  of  which,  in  spite  of 
all  your  efforts  toward  expression,  will 
remain  incommunicable. 


Chapter  XXVII 

Beside  the  I  sis 

THERE  is  a  wilful  spirit  in  the 
study-fire  which  eludes  all  attempts 
to  make  it  the  servant  of  human  moods 
and  habits.  It  is  gay  and  even  bois 
terous  on  days  when  it  ought  to  be  mel 
ancholy,  and  it  is  despondent  at  times 
when  it  ought  to  be  cheerful. 

There  is  much  that  is  akin  to  human 
thought  in  it,  and  there  is  much  that  is 
alien  ;  for  the  wild,  free  life  of  the  woods 
blazes  and  sings  in  its  flames.  Its  glow 
rests  now  on  one  and  now  on  another 
of  the  objects  that  lie  within  its  magic 
circle ;  one  day  it  seems  to  seek  the 
poet's  corner,  and  lingers  with  a  kind  of 
bright  and  merry  tenderness  about  those 
rows  of  shining  names ;  on  other  days  it 
makes  its  home  with  the  travellers,  as  if 
in  fancy  mingling  its  softer  radiance  with 
246 


Beside  the  Isis 

the  fiery  brightness  of  the  desert,  or 
breaking  a  little  the  gloom  of  the  arctic 
night.  Sometimes  it  lies  soft  and  warm 
on  one  of  the  two  or  three  faces  that 
hang  on  the  study  walls  ;  on  the  old 
poet  whose  memory  lends  a  deep  and 
beautiful  interest  to  one  of  the  quaintest 
of  Old  World  towns;  or  on  the  keen, 
pure  face  of  one  so  modern  and  Ameri 
can  that,  although  the  cadence  of  the 
pine  breaks  the  silence  where  he  sleeps, 
he  is  still  so  far  in  advance  of  us  that  we 
cannot  call  ourselves  his  contemporaries. 
To-day  it  rests  contentedly  on  a  bit  of 
landscape  to  which  one's  imagination 
goes  out  in  these  spring  days  as  to  one 
of  those  enchanting  places  which  are  its 
visible  homes.  It  is  a  glimpse  of  the 
garden  of  New  College  at  Oxford,  with 
the  beautiful  Magdalen  tower  in  the 
distance  ;  the  venerable  trees,  the  stretch 
of  velvety  sward,  the  ivy-covered  gate  in 
the  foreground.  As  the  eye  rests  upon 
it  memory  fills  in  the  imperfect  picture  ; 
the  bit  of  the  old  city  wall  hidden  by  the 
247 


My  Study  Fire 

dense  masses  of  ivy,  the  walk  shadowed 
by  ancient  trees,  the  sculptured  walls  of 
the  College  —  these  rise  on  the  inward 
vision  under  the  spell  of  this  glimpse  of 
the  venerable  town  on  the  Isis.  And 
with  them  comes  that  which  no  visible 
portraiture  can  represent ;  the  Old  World 
silence  and  peace,  the  ripe  loveliness, 
the  brooding  presence  of  ancient  memo 
ries  !  One  feels  here  the  deepest  spell 
of  that  history  which,  although  localised 
on  an  alien  continent,  is  still  the  back 
ground  of  his  own  life ;  that  history 
which  lives  in  names  as  familiar  as  the 
names  of  those  who  stand  nearest  us,  in 
thoughts  that  are  our  constant  com 
panions,  in  words  whose  music  is  never 
silent  in  our  memory.  Melancholy 
indeed  must  be  the  lot  of  one  who  could 
sit  under  these  ancient  trees  in  this 
ancient  world,  where  nature  and  art  con 
spired  centuries  ago  to  lay  eye  and  imagi 
nation  under  a  common  spell,  and  not 
feel  himself  in  some  sense  one  of  the 
heirs  of  this  incomparable  inheritance 
248 


Beside  the  Isis 

bequeathed  by  history,  art,  and  scholar 
ship  to  this  busy,  changing  modern  world. 
From  the  day,  now  more  than  five  cen 
turies  past,  when  the  princely  generosity 
of  that  princely  scholar  and  man,  Wil 
liam  of  Wykeham,  opened  the  noble 
quadrangle  of  New  College  to  "  seventy 
scholars  studying  in  the  faculties,"  to 
this  spring  day,  when  the  limes  are  green 
and  the  soft  April  skies  spread  over 
spire  and  tower,  this  place  has  been 
sacred  to  the  "things  of  the  mind." 

To  recall  the  names  of  the  Oxford 
scholars,  from  Roger  Bacon  and  Wyclif 
to  Jowett  and  Pattison,  is  to  revive  the 
most  splendid  traditions  of  English  learn 
ing,  and  to  traverse  step  by  step  the  great 
stages  of  the  intellectual  growth  of  the 
modern  world :  mediaevalism,  with  its 
kindred  scholasticism ;  the  Renaissance, 
with  its  ardent  teachers  of  the  new  learn 
ing  ;  the  Reformation,  whose  visible  wit 
ness  to  liberty  and  conscience  stands  in 
St.  Giles  Street;  the  broad,  rich  move 
ment  of  recent  scholarship  associated  with 
249 


My  Study  Fire 

a  score  of  famous  names.  One  may  look 
through  Mr.  Hogg's  eyes  into  Shelley's 
rooms  in  University  College,  where  the 
slight,  shy  poet  carries  on  his  chemical 
experiments,  or  watch  him  when  on  Mag 
dalen  Bridge  he  abruptly,  snatches  a  baby 
from  its  mother's  arms  to  interrogate  it 
concerning  pre-existence ;  or  take  note 
of  Addison  meditating  under  the  elms 
by  the  Cherwell ;  or  of  Johnson  in  his 
poor  chamber  in  Pembroke  Gate  tower ; 
or  study  the  faces  of  Wolsey  and  Glad 
stone  as  they  hang  in  the  hall  of  Christ 
Church  ;  or  strive  to  recall,  in  the  week 
day  solitude  of  St.  Mary's,  the  spell  of 
those  sermons  spoken  sixty  years  ago 
from  its  pulpit  by  one  of  the  masters 
of  English  speech,  who  has  been  also  a 
master  of  the  things  of  the  spirit.  One 
may  find  all  shrines  of  ancient  worship 
and  consult  all  spirits  of  ancient  wis 
dom  in  this  beautiful  city,  "so  vener 
able,  so  lovely,  so  unravaged  by  the 
fierce  intellectual  life  of  our  century, 
so  serene  !  "  Well  might  the  poet  and 
250 


Beside  the  Isis 

scholar  who  loved  her  and  honoured  her 
with  his  own  delicate  genius,  his  own 
manly  independence,  add :  "  And  yet, 
steeped  in  sentiment  as  she  lies,  spread 
ing  her  gardens  to  the  moonlight,  and 
whispering  from  her  towers  the  last 
enchantments  of  the  Middle  Age,  who 
will  deny  that  Oxford  by  her  ineffable 
charm  keeps  ever  calling  us  nearer  to 
the  true  goal  of  all  of  us,  to  the  ideal, 
to  perfection  —  to  beauty,  in  a  word, 
which  is  only  truth  seen  from  another 
side  ? " 

There  are  glimpses  everywhere  which 
lure  one  away  from  this  lovely  garden  of 
New  College ;  in  every  quadrangle  there 
are  associations  with  great  names.  But 
if  one  is  in  a  meditative  mood,  he  will 
be  loath  to  exchange  the  silence  of  this 
venerable  garden  for  the  magnificence  of 
the  Christ  Church  quadrangles  or  for  the 
noble  vista  of  High  Street,  which  Haw 
thorne  long  ago  pronounced  the  most 
impressive  street  in  England.  The  spell 
of  Oxford  is  in  the  air,  and  one  comes 
251 


My  Study  Fire 

under  it  most  entirely  when  he  loiters 
in  one  of  these  ancient  fastnesses  of 
the  beautiful  English  verdure.  As  one 
waits  on  the  genius  of  the  place,  one 
recalls  the  words  of  the  pure  and  noble 
scholar  whose  life  and  thought  have  been 
an  education  to  his  country.  No  mod 
ern  man  has  valued  scholarship  more 
intelligently  and  justly  than  Emerson. 
His  life  was  given  to  its  pursuits,  and 
his  work,  singularly  free  from  the  intru 
sion  of  the  processes  and  terminology  of 
scholarship,  is  ripe  with  its  wisdom  and 
weighty  in  expression  of  its  large  results. 
"  A  scholar,"  said  Emerson,  "  is  the  fa 
vourite  of  heaven  and  earth,  the  excellency 
of  his  country,  the  happiest  of  men.  His 
duties  lead  him  directly  into  the  holy 
ground  where  other  men's  aspirations 
only  point.  His  successes  are  occasions 
of  the  purest  joy  to  all  men."  Never 
were  truer  words  written ;  the  world  does 
not  reward  its  scholars  as  it  rewards  those 
who  achieve  more  practical  or  more  strik 
ing  and  picturesque  successes,  but  in  its 
252 


Beside  the  Isis 

heart  it  honours  them  and  recognises,  by 
instinct  if  not  by  intelligence,  that  they 
are  the  ministers  of  its  noblest  interests. 
Those  only  who  have  had  a  share,  how 
ever  small,  in  the  pursuit  of  knowledge 
for  its  own  sake  know  how  engrossing 
the  pursuit  is,  and  how  all  other  forms 
of  activity  lose  interest  in  comparison 
with  it.  There  is  for  all  such  minds  an 
irresistible  fascination  in  the  scholar's 
work ;  a  spell  which  makes  the  years 
one  long  preoccupation,  and  life  an  in 
tense  and  insatiable  hunger  for  more  light 
and  truth.  The  pedant  deals  with  the 
husks  of  things,  but  the  scholar  deals 
with  the  great  realities  which  are  dis 
closed  and  expressed  in  the  vast  range 
of  human  knowledge.  He  lives  con 
tinually  in  the  great  moments  and  with 
the  great  minds ;  he  escapes  the  limita 
tions  of  the  passing  hour  into  the  great 
past  or  into  the  larger  movement  of  his 
own  time.  The  noblest  works  of  the 
noblest  men  are  his  habitual  compan 
ions,  and  he  looks  upon  life  with  eyes 
253 


My  Study  Fire 

which  distinguish  its  main  currents  from 
its  conflicting  and  momentary  eddies. 

Here,  within  these  ivy-clad  walls,  with 
this  vision  of  mediaeval  towers  and  turrets 
and  spires,  embosomed  in  a  quiet  in 
which  great  voices  seem  to  be  hushed, 
one  believes  with  Emerson  that  the 
scholar  is  the  most  fortunate  of  men. 
One  recalls  the  ripe  and  fruitful  seekers 
after  truth  who  have  lived  and  died  in 
these  peaceful  retreats ;  pacing  year  after 
year  these  shaded  walks,  working  in  the 
libraries,  meditating  by  the  mullioned 
windows  with  all  the  magical  beauty  of 
Oxford  spread  out  before  them.  Was  it 
not  Hawthorne  who  wished  that  he  had 
one  life  to  spend  entirely  in  Oxford  ?  In 
this  enchanting  "  home  of  lost  causes 
and  impossible  loyalties  "  one  could  eas 
ily  imagine  himself  becalmed  forever; 
always  meaning  to  break  the  charm  and 
return  to  the  turbulent  world  not  two 
hours  away,  and  yet  always  postponing 
the  final  parting  to  a  morrow  which  never 
comes. 

254 


Beside  the  Isis 

From  the  reverie  into  which  the  fire 
light  on  the  bit  of  landscape  has  lured 
me  insensibly,  I  awake  to  find  the  fire 
dying  and  the  sky  splendid  with  the  mid 
night  stars.  The  towers  of  Oxford  have 
become  once  more  a  memory,  but  that 
which  gives  them  their  most  enduring 
charm  may  be  here  as  well  as  there;  for 
here  no  less  than  beside  the  Isis  one  may 
love  scholarship  and  pursue  it,  one  may 
hold  to  the  things  of  the  mind  against  all 
the  temptations  of  materialism,  one  may 
live  his  own  life  of  thought. 


255 


Chapter  XXVIII 

A  Word  for  Idleness 

f  I  ^HE  study  fire  is  sometimes  so  po- 
JL     tent  a  solicitation  to  reverie  that  I 
ask  myself  whether  it  be   not   a   subtle 
kind  of  temptation.     Even  when  a  man 
has  cleared  himself  of  the  cant  of  the  day, 
as  Carlyle  would   put  it,  and  delivered 
himself  of  the   American   illusion   that 
every  hour  not  devoted  to  "  doing  some 
thing"  is  an  hour  wasted,  the  inherited 
instinct  is  still  strong  enough  to  make  a 
faint  appeal  to  conscience.    Those  active, 
aggressive  words,  "  doing  "  and  "getting," 
have  so  long  usurped  the  greater  part  of 
the  space  in  our  vocabulary  that  we  use  the 
words  "  being"  and  "  growing  "  with  a  little 
uncertainty ;  most  of  us  are  not  entirely 
at  ease  with  them  yet.     One  of  the  high 
est  uses  of  literature  is  the  aid  it  gives  us 
in  securing  something  like  harmony  of 
256 


A  Word  for  Idleness 

life  —  a  just  balance  between  the  faculties 
which  are  developed  by  practical  affairs 
and  those  which  need  the  ampler  air  of 
intellectual  movement.  Literature  is  the 
mute  but  eloquent  witness  forever  testify 
ing  to  the  reality  and  power  of  ideas  and 
ideals.  Every  great  poem  is  a  revelation 
of  that  invisible  world  of  beauty  in  which 
all  may  claim  citizenship,  but  in  which 
those  alone  abide  who  are  rich  in  their 
own  natures ;  a  world  in  which  no  ac 
tivity  is  valued  by  the  stir  it  makes,  and 
no  achievement  measured  by  the  noise 
which  accompanies  it. 

When  I  recall  these  things,  I  perceive 
that  the  study  fire  is  helping  me  to  be 
true  to  myself  when  it  gently  lures  me 
on  to  reverie  and  meditation.  There  is 
a  vast  difference  between  being  busy  and 
being  fruitful.  Busy  people  are  often 
painfully  barren  and  uninteresting.  Their 
activity  expends  itself  in  small  mechani 
cal  ways  which  add  nothing  to  the  sum 
of  human  knowledge  or  happiness.  On 
the  other  hand,  people  who  are  appar- 
17  257 


My  Study  Fire 

ently  idle,  who  seem  to  be  detached  from 
the  working  world,  are  often  the  most 
fruitful.  Our  standards  of  work  and 
idleness  are  in  sad  need  of  revision  —  a 
revision  which  shall  substitute  character 
for  mere  activity,  and  measure  worth  and 
achievement  by  the  depth  and  richness 
of  nature  disclosed.  The  prior  of  the 
Carmelite  convent  at  Frankfort  described 
Giordano  Bruno  as  a  man  always  "  walk 
ing  up  and  down,  filled  with  fantastic 
meditations  upon  new  things."  In  the 
judgment  of  the  busy  people  of  his  time, 
Bruno,  although  by  no  means  devoid  of 
energy,  was  probably  accounted  an  idler. 
His  occupations  were  different  from 
theirs,  and  therefore,  of  course,  to  be 
condemned ;  "  so  runs  the  world  away." 
But  time,  which  has  corrected  so  many 
inadequate  judgments,  has  overruled  the 
decision  of  Bruno's  critics ;  they  have 
ceased  with  their  works,  but  those  "  fan 
tastic  meditations "  have  somehow  sus 
tained  their  interest,  and  there  now  stands 
on  the  Campo  de'  Fiori  at  Rome  a  statue 
258 


A  Word  for  Idleness 

of  the  scholar  whose  walking  up  and 
down  attracted  the  attention  of  the  Car 
melite  prior  three  centuries  ago  and  more. 
In  these  apparently  inactive  hours  of 
meditation  great  thoughts  rise  out  of  the 
silent  deep  over  which  a  man  broods  in 
active  and  absorbed. 

Balzac  was  a  prodigious  worker. 
Measured  by  the  standard  he  set,  the 
real  toil  of  most  people  who  account 
themselves  busy  shrinks  to  very  small 
dimensions.  A  kind  of  demoniac  energy 
seized  the  great  novelist  when  a  new 
work  lay  clear  in  his  mind,  drove  him 
off  the  boulevard,  locked  him  in  his 
working  room,  and  held  him  there  in 
almost  solitary  confinement  until  the 
novel  was  written,  and  the  novelist 
emerged  worn,  exhausted,  and  reduced 
to  a  shadow  of  his  former  self.  This 
anguish  of  toil  —  for  work  so  intense 
and  continuous  is  nothing  less  than 
anguish  —  was  prolonged  through  years, 
and  the  fruit  of  it  fills  several  shelves 
in  our  book-cases ;  and  yet  the  highest 
259 


My  Study  Fire 

work  which  Balzac  did  was  not  done 
in  those  solitary  and  painful  days  when 
the  fever  of  composition  was  on  him ; 
it  was  done  in  the  long,  apparently  idle 
hours  which  he  spent  on  the  boulevards, 
and  at  the  cafes.  In  those  hours  his 
keen  and  powerful  mind  was  receiving 
impressions,  collecting  facts,  observing 
men,  drinking  in  the  vast  movement  of 
life  which  went  on  about  him  and  in 
which  every  social  condition,  every  phase 
of  character,  every  process  of  moral 
advance  or .  decay,  was  revealed.  These 
meditative  hours,  in  which  the  hands 
were  idle  that  the  mind  might  have 
freest  range  and  the  imagination  unin 
terrupted  play,  were  the  creative  periods ; 
in  them  great  works  were  planned,  devel 
oped,  shaped.  They  were  the  real  work 
ing  hours  of  the  novelist,  who  displayed 
on  an  immense  canvas  the  France  of  his 
day. 

One    can   imagine  as    he   studies   the 
face    of    Shakespeare     or    of     Goethe, 
charged   with  the  very   spirit  of  medi- 
260 


A  Word  for  Idleness 

tation,  what  long  and  inspiring  hours 
of  thought,  of  deep  brooding  upon  the 
mystery  of  the  soul,  lay  behind  the 
works  of  these  masters  of  man  and  his 
life.  Out  of  this  profound  silence,  in 
which  the  soul  opened  itself,  hushed 
and  reverential,  to  the  lessons  of  time 
and  eternity,  the  great  works  grew  as 
the  tree  and  the  flower  spring  out  of 
the  hidden  places  of  the  soil.  Men  of 
affluent  nature,  to  whom  thought  brings 
its  solemn  revelations,  and  on  the  unseen 
horizon  of  whose  souls  the  light  of  the 
imagination  glows  like  sunrise  on  new 
and  undiscovered  worlds,  live  in  this 
mood  of  meditation  —  the  mother  of  all 
the  glorious  works  of  art  and  literature 
which  inspire  and  sustain  us.  These 
hours  in  which  no  activity  breaks  the 
current  of  thought  are  the  creative 
periods ;  hours  solemn  with  that  kinship 
with  Deity  which  comes  when  the  eye 
discerns  the  path  of  the  divine  thought, 
or  sees  with  prophetic  vision  the  image 
of  that  beauty  with  which  all  created 
261 


My  Study  Fire 

things  are  suffused.  The  deepest  life 
is  as  silent  as  the  soil  out  of  which 
the  glory  of  summer  bursts  ;  all  noble 
activities  issue  from  it,  and  no  great 
work  is  ever  done  save  by  those  who 
have  lived  in  the  repose  which  precedes 
creation. 


262 


Chapter  XXIX 

"The  Bliss  of  Solitude." 

WHEN  I  looked  out  of  the  study 
window  this  morning,  and  saw 
the  wide  stretch  of  country  to  the  distant 
hills  covered  with  drifting  snow,  which  a 
fierce  and  wilful  wind  carried  hither  and 
thither  in  whirling  clouds  like  vagrant 
wraiths,  I  knew  what  Emerson  meant 
when  he  wrote  that  fine  line  about  the 
"  tumultuous  privacy  of  storm."  Wind 
and  snow  bar  all  the  gates  to-day  with 
invisible  bolts  ;  the  village  is  as  remote 
and  detached  as  if  it  were  on  another 
continent.  Across  all  the  avenues  of 
communication  is  written  "  no  thorough 
fare;"  the  road  through  the  woods  will 
remain  for  hours  without  a  disturbing 
wheel,  and  with  no  traveller  save  the 
shy  wild  dwellers  of  the  place,  glad 
of  this  sudden  barricade  against  human 
263 


My  Study  Fire 

intrusion.  On  the  hearth,  as  if  answer 
ing  the  shouts  of  the  riotous  wind  down 
the  chimney,  the  fire  burns  with  un 
wonted  cheeriness. 

On  such  a  morning,  when  nature  takes 
matters  in  her  own  hands  and  locks  the 
doors  of  ingress  and  egress  without  so 
much  as  saying  "  by  your  leave,"  one 
settles  down  to  a  day  of  meditation 
and  reading  with  peculiar  and  unquali 
fied  satisfaction.  No  hand  will  let  the 
knocker  fall,  with  resounding  clangour, 
at  the  very  moment  when  you  have 
completely  lost  yourself  in  some  beauti 
ful  country  of  the  soul  —  some  distant 
island  where  Prospero  still  holds  his 
unburied  rod  and  reads  in  his  unsunken 
books ;  some  valley  of  Avalon,  where 
the  apple  blossoms  still  rain  the  sweet 
ness  of  perennial  summer  on  the  mailed 
hand  of  chivalry.  Best  of  all,  no  dis 
quieting  voice  of  duty  will  call  persist 
ently  from  some  remote  quarter ;  you 
have  been  bolted  and  barred  against  the 
intrusion  even  of  you?  conscience.  So 
264 


"The  Bliss  of  Solitude" 

lodged,  one  may  give  himself  up  to  the 
solitude  of  the  day  without  any  other 
feeling  than  that  of  repose  and  delight. 
Happy  is  he  to  whom  life  offers  the 
gift  of  solitude;  that  gift  which  makes 
so  many  other  gifts  available  !  Happy 
is  he  to  whom  with  books  and  the  love 
of  meditation  there  is  also  given  the 
repose,  the  quiet,  the  isolation  which  are 
the  very  breath  of  the  life  of  thought ! 
We  are  swift  to  praise  heroism  and  self- 
denial  when  these  take  on  striking  forms 
and  appeal  to  the  eye  or  the  imagination  ; 
but  how  infrequent  is  our  recognition  of 
that  noble  resignation  which  takes  the 
form  of  quiet  acceptance  of  limitations 
which  separate  one  from  the  work  of  his 
heart  and  divide  him  from  the  joy  of  his 
life! 

Happy  are  they,  however,  to  whom 
solitude  brings  its  deep  and  satisfying 
joy  —  the  joy  of  fellowship  with  great 
souls,  of  companionship  with  nature  in 
that  sublime  communion  which  Aubrey 
De  Vere  describes  as  "  one  long  mystic 
265 


My  Study  Fire 

colloquy  between  the  twin-born  powers, 
whispering  together  of  immortality  ;  "  of 
quiet  brooding  over  one's  thought;  of 
the  rapture  of  the  imagination  detaching 
itself  from  the  world  of  habit  and  work, 
and  breathing  the  ampler  ether  of  the 
great  Idealisms.  Nothing  redeems  a  life 
from  the  barrenness  of  continued  activity 
so  completely  as  a  stream  of  deep,  silent 
meditation  running  under  all  one's  work, 
and  rising  into  light  when  the  day  of  soli 
tude  comes  round.  It  has  been  said  of 
Shakespeare  that  his  face  bears  the  marks 
of  habitual  meditation ;  there  is  visible 
in  it  the  calmness  and  fulness  of  a  mind 
forever  brooding  over  the  deep  things  of 
life ;  steadied  by  contemplation  of  the 
unfathomable  gulfs  beneath,  uplifted  by 
vision  of  the  shining  heights  above, 
calmed  and  held  in  poise  by  familiarity 
with  the  unmeasured  forces  which  play 
about  us. 

There  is  no  shirking  of  common  duties, 
no  self-indulgence,  in  this  separation  from 
our  fellows.     The  Irishman  who  defined 
266 


"The  Bliss  of  Solitude  " 

solitude  as  "  being  alone  with  one's 
sweetheart "  was  not  so  far  out  of  the 
way  as  he  seems  at  the  first  blush.  For 
the  solitude  that  is  a  necessity  to  thought 
ful  natures  is  not  isolation  ;  it  is  separa 
tion  from  the  stress  and  turmoil  of  the 
world.  Wordsworth's  life  at  Grasmere 
was  a  life  of  solitude,  but  not  a  solitary 
life  ;  on  the  contrary,  it  was  enriched 
and  ministered  to  by  the  most  intimate 
and  devoted  companionship.  That 
companionship  did  not  introduce  new 
and  contradictory  influences  into  the 
poet's  life;  it  brought  no  pressure  of 
other  and  diverse  aims  and  ideals  to  bear 
on  his  work.  It  confirmed  and  inspired 
him  by  constant  and  pervading  sympathy. 
His  days  were  spent  in  solitude,  without 
solitariness  or  isolation  ;  the  atmosphere 
of  his  fireside  was  not  different  from  that 
which  reigned  among  the  hills  in  those 
long  hours  when  the  poet  paced  to  and 
fro  along  his  garden  paths,  chanting  his 
own  lines  in  low  monotone. 

There  is  nothing  more  delightful  about 
267 


My  Study  Fire 

the  study  fire  than  the  sense  of  congenial 
solitude  which  it  conveys  —  the  solitude 
of  quiet,  reposeful  hours,  "  far  from  the 
madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife."  The 
world  must  be  with  us,  but  not  too  much 
with  us,  if  we  would  gain  that  calm,  com 
plete  mastery  of  ourselves  which  marks 
full  intellectual  stature.  No  large-minded 
man  reviles  the  world ;  he  knows  its 
uses  and  value  too  well  for  that;  it  is 
the  cramped,  narrow,  or  morbid  natures 
who  seek  complete  isolation,  and  in  the 
little  circle  of  their  own  individualism 
find  that  satisfaction  which  comes  to 
men  of  larger  mould  only  from  free 
and  inspiring  contact  with  the  whole 
order  of  things  of  which  they  are  part. 
It  is  not  rejection  of  society,  but  wise  and 
right  use  of  it,  which  characterises  the 
man  who  lives  most  richly  in  the  things 
of  the  mind.  One  finds  in  solitude  only 
that  which  he  takes  into  it ;  it  gives  noth 
ing  save  the  conditions  most  favoura 
ble  to  growth.  The  quiet  hours  before 
one's  fire,  with  one's  books  at  hand ;  the 
268 


"The  Bliss  of  Solitude" 

long  ramble  along  the  woodland  road  — 
these  make  one  free  to  brood  over  the 
thoughts  that  come  unbidden,  to  follow 
them  step  by  step  to  their  unseen  goals, 
and  to  drink  in  the  subtle  and  invisible 
influences  of  the  hour  when  one  gives 
one's  self  up  to  it.  There  is  nothing 
in  all  the  rich  and  deep  experience  of 
life  so  full  of  quiet  joy,  so  freighted 
with  the  revelations  of  the  things  we  seek 
with  completest  sincerity,  as  these  pauses 
of  solitude  in  the  ceaseless  stir  and  move 
ment  of  the  world. 


269 


Chapter  XXX 

The  Mystery  of  Atmosphere 

NOT  many  months  ago  an  artist  de 
scribed  a  striking  change  in  a 
landscape.  It  was  a  dull  afternoon  in 
September,  and  the  stretch  of  sand  dune, 
with  its  stunted  trees  and  scattered  bits 
of  herbage,  was  gray  as  the  sky  and  the 
sea.  The  narrow  channel  of  a  little 
estuary  that  ran  back  among  the  low  hills 
was  empty  and  bare.  Two  hours  passed, 
and  the  busy  sketcher  looked  up  sud 
denly  from  her  work  to  find  the  silent 
world  alive  once  more.  The  tide  was 
coming  in,  and  the  sea  was.  sending  a 
current  out  of  its  own  fathomless  life 
into  the  heart  of  the  land.  Up  the  nar 
row  channel  ran  the  eager,  restless  rivulet, 
widening,  rippling,  full  of  vitality,  move 
ment,  and  colour,  and  changing  on  the 
instant  the  gray  of  sky  and  landscape 
270 


The  Mystery  of  Atmosphere 

into  a  warmer  tone.  A  pulsation  from 
the  sea  had  transformed  the  landscape. 

On  dark  days  or  lifeless  days  the  light 
ing  of  the  fire  works  a  kindred  miracle 
in  the  study ;  it  fills  the  room  with  life, 
colour,  change.  The  four  walls  are  un 
changed  ;  the  books  look  down  in  the 
old  order  from  the  shelves ;  the  table 
overflows  as  of  old  with  magazines  and 
reviews ;  it  is  the  same  room,  and  yet  it 
is  not  the  same,  for  it  is  pervaded  by  a 
different  atmosphere. 

Nothing  is  more  elusive  than  this  in 
tangible  thing  we  call  atmosphere,  but 
nothing  holds  more  of  the  magic  of 
beauty  and  of  the  charm  of  life.  It  is, 
indeed,  a  very  subtle  and  pervasive  form 
of  life ;  the  form  which  finds  its  delicate 
and  fadeless  record  in  art.  Those  trans 
parent  dawns  which  the  lover  of  Corot 
knows  so  well  are  but  marvellous  impres 
sions  of  atmosphere ;  the  wonder  is  not 
in  earth  or  sky,  it  is  in  the  fusion  of  light 
and  air.  There  is  no  bit  of  nature  that 
a  man  loves  which  has  not  this  spell  for 
271 


My  Study  Fire 

him ;  rocks,  trees,  and  running  stream 
remain  to-day  as  they  were  yesterday, 
but  they  are  changed,  for  a  different  at 
mosphere  enfolds  them.  There  is  no 
symbol  of  permanency  on  this  perishing 
earth  of  ours  so  impressive  as  a  mountain 
range ;  but  there  is  no  created  thing  so 
full  of  the  mystery  of  change.  Distance, 
height,  mass,  and  relation  are  never  the 
same  two  hours  together.  On  some 
mornings  the  hills  are  remote,  inaccessi 
ble,  immobile,  of  unbroken  surface ;  but 
when  the  afternoon  comes,  behold  !  they 
are  near,  soft  of  tone,  with  outlines  that 
seem  almost  fluid  in  their  mobility,  and 
with  great  fissures,  full  of  golden  light, 
opening  their  very  heart  to  the  day. 

This  atmospheric  quality  finds  its  source 
in  the  imagination,  and,  resting  on  the 
bare,  unchanging  facts  of  life,  transforms 
and  irradiates  them.  To  the  fisherman, 
intent  on  his  task  or  weary  of  the  endless 
strife  with  storm  and  calm,  the  seas  about 
Iceland  are  dreary  enough ;  but  to  Pierre 
Loti,  with  his  sensitive,  impressionable 
272 


The  Mystery  of  Atmosphere 

imagination,  what  miracles  of  light  and 
colour  are  wrought  on  those  far-off  wastes 
of  ocean  !  So  delicately  and  with  such 
command  of  the  subtlest  effects  of  words 
are  those  changes  registered,  from  clear 
skies  stainless  above  blue  seas  to  nights 
of  fathomless  blackness  swept  by  polar 
bitterness  of  storm,  that  the  landscape 
loses  for  us  its  fixed  and  changeless  ele 
ments  and  becomes  a  flowing  stream  of 
force  touched  every  moment  with  shift 
ing  and  enchanting  beauty. 

Shakespeare  knew  all  the  secrets  of 
atmosphere,  and,  by  reason  of  them,  pen 
etrates  the  very  sources  of  the  life  with 
which  he  deals,  and  makes  us  sharers 
with  himself  in  this  final  and  complete 
possession.  Other  poets  could  have  re 
produced  more  accurately  and  with  harder 
fidelity  to  bare  fact  the  fixed  conditions 
of  Roman  life  under  the  first  Csesar,  and 
of  life  on  the  Nile  in  the  day  of  the 
greatest  siren  who  has  ever  sung  men 
into  forgetfulness  of  duty  and  indifference 
to  empire ;  but  no  one  has  touched  those 
18  273 


My  Study  Fire 

conditions  with  such  semblance  of  reality, 
put  into  those  streets  such  moving  fig 
ures,  into  those  dead  and  buried  men  and 
women  such  characteristic  and  individual 
force  and  charm,  and  into  that  faded  past 
such  glowing  colour,  such  moving  splen 
dour,  such  varied  and  interwoven  charm. 
Brutus  yielding  to  the  noble  importun 
ity  of  Portia  for  confidence,  and  Marc 
Antony  melting  in  purpose  and  energy 
at  the  glance  of  those  languorous  eyes 
and  the  sound  of  that  full-throated,  pas 
sionate  voice  —  is  there  anywhere  a  con 
trast  so  fundamental,  because  so  com 
pounded  of  the  invisible  elements  which 
belong  not  to  the  fixed  and  stationary, 
but  to  the  free  and  flowing  side  of  life  ? 

And  the  spell  of  this  atmospheric 
quality  lies  in  its  spontaneity  and  uncon 
sciousness.  It  steals  into  our  thought 
and  conveys  a  lasting  impression  while 
we  take  no  note  of  its  presence.  State 
ments  of  fact,  conclusions,  descriptions, 
we  can  deal  with  critically,  because  they 
are,  in  a  way,  concrete  and  tangible ;  but 
274 


The  Mystery  of  Atmosphere 

the  colours  in  which  these  are  dyed,  the 
feeling  which  pervades  them,  the  name 
less,  elusive  quality  which  conforms  them 
to  the  idea  they  embody  or  the  character 
they  express,  find  us  unprotected  and  de 
fenceless.  Unless  we  resolutely  close  the 
eye,  the  landscape  instantly  records  itself 
on  the  mind ;  and  unless  we  deliberately 
shut  the  imagination,  the  artist  works  his 
spell  within  us.  The  fresh  and  penetrat 
ing  charm  of  the  early  summer  is  not 
more  pervasive  and  impossible  to  escape 
than  is  this  intangible  quality  in  a  work 
of  art. 

To  the  artist  himself  it  is  not  less 
mysterious ;  it  is  part  of  his  personality, 
and  he  cannot  lay  hand  upon  it.  In  the 
"  Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn  "  and  the  "  Eve 
of  St.  Agnes  "  Keats  was  dealing  with 
material  as  different  in  substance,  colour, 
and  form  as  the  classical  and  the  mediaeval 
ideals  and  manner  of  life.  Of  that  dif 
ference  he  was  no  doubt  perfectly  con 
scious,  and  he  makes  us  realise  it  in  a 
definite  and  distinct  difference  of  diction, 
275 


My  Study  Fire 

feeling,  and  treatment;  but  there  is  a 
difference  of  atmosphere  between  the 
two  poems  of  which  the  poet  cannot 
have  been  conscious  at  the  moment  of 
production.  There  was  in  him  an  un 
conscious  adjustment  of  mind,  an  uncon 
scious  response  of  the  imagination  to  the 
appeal  of  two  aspects  of  life,  separated 
not  only  by  an  abyss  of  time,  but  by  a 
still  deeper  abyss  of  experience.  That 
response  is  a  vital  act ;  it  is  the  activity 
of  that  deeper  self  whose  secret  is  un- 
revealed ;  it  is  creative,  and  therefore 
baffling  and  inexplicable.  The  rocks, 
fields,  trees,  and  hills  may  be  set  down 
accurately  on  the  map ;  but  no  man  can 
make  record  of  the  atmosphere  which 
to-day  touches  them  with  beauty  beyond 
the  skill  of  art,  and  to-morrow  leaves 
them  cold,  detached,  and  lifeless  as  the 
matter  of  which  they  are  compounded. 
Students  and  critics  have  not  failed  to 
point  out  Shakespeare's  methods  of  deal 
ing  with  history  and  character,  but  no 
lover  of  the  great  dramatist  has  ever 
276 


The  Mystery  of  Atmosphere 

discovered  the  secret  of  that  power  by 
which  he  gives  to  our  imagination  the 
rude  massiveness  of  the  age  of  Lear, 
the  fresh,  varied,  and  vital  charm  of 
the  Forest  of  Arden,  and  the  colour, 
the  languor,  and  the  voluptuous  spell  of 
Egypt  upon  Antony  and  Enobarbus. 


277 


IN  most  men  there  is  a  native  con 
servatism  ;  even  those  who  are 
progressive  and  radical  in  their  view 
of  things  in  general  are  stanch  defend 
ers  of  old  habits  and  familiar  places. 
The  man  who  has  his  doubts  about 
absolute  private  ownership  will  hesitate 
long  before  cutting  down  some  old-time 
tree  whose  beauty  decay  is  fast  changing 
into  ugliness,  or  giving  up  the  incon 
venient  and  narrow  home  of  childhood 
for  more  ample  and  attractive  quarters. 
We  cling  to  old  things  by  instinct,  and 
because  they  have  been  a  part  of  our 
lives.  When  Rosalind  and  myself  be 
gan  talking  about  a  new  and  ampler 
hearth  for  the  study  fire,  the  prospect, 
although  alluring,  was  not  without  its 
278 


shadows.  There  was  not  only  the  con 
sciousness  of  the  surrender  of  delightful 
associations,  but  the  thought  of  the  new 
ness  to  be  made  old  and  the  coldness  to 
be  made  warm.  A  fresh  hearth  has  no 
sentiment  until  the  fire  has  roared  up  the 
wide-throated  chimney  on  windy  nights, 
no  associations  until  its  glow  has  fallen 
on  a  circle  of  familiar  faces. 

But  how  soon  the  strange  becomes 
familiar,  and  that  which  was  detached 
from  all  human  fellowship  takes  on  the 
deeper  interest  and  profounder  mean 
ing  of  human  life  !  Rosalind  had  barely 
lighted  the  fire  on  the  new  hearth  before 
the  room  seemed  familiar  and  homelike. 
The  bit  of  driftwood  which  the  children 
laid  on  at  a  later  stage  was  really  needed 
to  give  a  suggestion  of  something  strange 
and  foreign  to  our  daily  habit.  There  is 
a  wonderful  power  in  us  of  imparting 
ourselves  to  our  surroundings  ;  the  foun 
tain  of  vitality  constantly  overflows  and 
fertilises  everything  we  touch.  We  give 
ourselves  to  the  rooms  in  which  we  live 
279 


My  Study  Fire 

and  the  tools  with  which  we  work.  It 
is  not  only  the  pen  with  which  the  great 
man  wrote  and  the  toy  with  which  the 
little  child  played  that  gain  a  kind  of 
sacredness  in  our  eyes ;  it  is  almost 
every  object  that  has  had  human  use. 
The  infinite  pains  which  Balzac  put  into 
the  description  of  the  belongings  of  his 
chief  characters  give  evidence  of  that 
virile  genius  which  caught  not  only  the 
direct  ray  of  character  but  gathered  up 
also  its  myriad  reflections  in  the  things 
it  used.  Life  is  always  the  most  precious 
of  our  possessions,  and  it  is  because  in 
animate  things  often  hold  so  much  of  it 
that  they  come  to  have  a  kind  of  sanctity 
for  us. 

If  the  deeper  history  of  our  race  were 
written,  would  not  one  half  of  it  record 
the  attachments  which  men  have  formed 
for  visible  and  invisible  things  —  for 
homes  and  churches  and  countries,  for 
institutions  and  beliefs  and  ideals  —  and 
the  other  half  record  the  struggles  and 
the  agony  with  which  men  have  detached 
280 


A  New  Hearth 

themselves  from  the  things  they  have 
loved  ?  To  humanise  by  use  and  by 
love,  and  then  to  forsake  as  the  trees 
drop  their  leaves  in  autumn  —  is  not 
this  the  human  story  and  the  human 
destiny?  There  is  a  noble  side  to  it, 
and  a  very  painful  side.  I  can  readily 
understand  the  half-pathetic  note  of  those 
who  recall  the  past  with  a  poignant  sense 
of  loss ;  to  whom  the  great  inspirations 
have  remained  in  the  beliefs  and  the 
ideals  of  youth,  and  whose  later  journey 
has  been  one  ever-widening  separation 
from  the  dear  familiar  things  of  long 
ago.  The  men  in  the  early  part  of  the 
century,  who  had  read  Addison  and 
Dryden  and  Pope  in  childhood,  could 
not  be  expected  to  discern  at  once  the 
genius  of  Wordsworth,  or  to  hear  at  first 
the  ethereal  strain  of  Shelley ;  as  to-day 
many  who  were  nourished  on  Words 
worth  and  Byron  and  Keats  are  unre 
sponsive  to  Browning  or  Rossetti ;  and 
now  that  the  massive  harmonies  of  the 
German  composers  are  filling  the  opera- 
281 


My  Study  Fire 

houses,  there  are  many  who  openly  or 
in  secret  are  longing  for  those  brilliant 
Italian  melodies  which  once  captivated 
the  world.  The  past  must  be  dear  to 
us,  since  it  was  once  part  of  us,  and 
when  we  recall  its  story  we  turn  the 
pages  of  our  own  biography.  The  old 
hearthstone  can  never  be  other  than 
sacred,  since  the  light  of  it  was  on  faces 
that  we  loved,  and  the  song  of  it  was 
often  our  own  thought  set  to  the  cheer 
ful  music  which  the  logs  sing  when  the 
living  woods  are  silent. 

But  shall  there  be  no  new  hearth  be 
cause  the  old  hearth  has  so  often  warmed 
and  comforted  us  ;  no  new  song  because 
the  old  songs  set  our  youth  to  their 
thrilling  music  ?  The  charm  of  the  past 
always  remains ;  we  do  not  surrender  it 
when  we  accept  the  new  truth  and  listen 
to  the  new  melody ;  we  are  not  disloyal 
to  it  when  we  live  deeply  and  resolutely 
in  the  age  which  gives  us  birth.  For 
myself,  a  radical  of  radicals  in  the  faith 
that  the  better  things  are  always  in  the 
282 


A  New  Hearth 

future,  that  truth  has  always  fresh  voices 
to  speak  for  it,  and  art  new  inspirations 
to  lend  it  new  beauty,  I  believe  that  the 
only  way  to  understand  the  past  is  to 
accept  and  live  in  the  present.  The 
true  Wordsworthian  is  he  who  discrimi 
nates  the  great  and  genuine  work  of  the 
poet  from  that  which  bears  his  name  but 
not  his  genius  —  not  he  who  insists  that 
all  the  lines  have  equal  inspiration.  The 
true  lover  of  Browning  is  not  he  who 
affirms  the  infallibility  of  the  poet,  but 
he  who  takes  account  of  the  ebb  and 
flow  of  the  poet's  inspiration.  The  true 
lover  of  the  things  that  have  been  done 
and  the  men  who  did  them  is  not  he 
who  lives  in  the  past  and  lacks,  there 
fore,  a  just  perspective ;  but  he  who  lives 
in  his  own  time,  loyal  to  its  duties  and 
open  to  its  visions,  and  who  sees  the 
past  as  one  looks  upon  a  landscape  from 
an  elevation  which  brings  all  its  land 
marks  and  boundaries  into  clear  view. 
Let  the  fire  blaze  on  the  new  hearth 

and  sing  lustily  in  the  throat  of  the  new 
283 


My  Study  Fire 

chimney ;  its  light  still  falls  on  the  old 
books  and  gilds  the  familiar  titles  !  We 
cannot  reject  the  past  if  we  would ;  it  is 
part  of  us,  and  it  travels  with  us  wher 
ever  we  go.  Not  by  reproducing  its 
forms,  but  by  discerning  its  spirit,  do 
we  really  honour  it.  It  is  an  illusion 
that  the  past  was  fixed  and  permanent, 
and  that  we  are  in  the  seething  flood. 
The  past  was  never  less  mobile  than  the 
present;  it  was  always  changing,  and 
that  which  seems  fixed  and  stable  to  us 
is  the  form  —  the  only  part  that  is  dead. 
Read  deeply  any  of  the  old  books,  and 
you  will  hear  the  roar  of  the  rushing 
river  in  them  as  distinctly  as  you  hear  it 
in  Hugo  or  Ibsen  or  Tennyson.  Beneath 
the  great  tragedies  to  which  the  Greeks 
listened  what  a  vast  movement  of  the 
deeps  of  human  thought  and  feeling ! 
Beneath  the  "  Divine  Comedy "  what 
a  whirl  of  rushing  tides  !  Beneath  Mar 
lowe  and  Shakespeare  what  tumult  of 
the  great  seas !  Genius  means  always 
and  everywhere  change  and  movement; 
284 


never  yet  has  it  lacked  the  vision  which 
made  the  future  dear  to  it.  When  that 
vision  ceases  to  inspire  the  artist's  thought 
and  hand,  genius  will  take  its  flight. 
For  the  deepest  and  most  inspiring  truth 
in  which  we  live  is  the  truth  that  life  is 
change  and  growth,  not  fixity  of  form 
and  finality  of  development.  Things 
move,  not  because  they  are  unstable,  but 
because  a  divine  impulse  impels  them 
forward ;  the  stars  travel,  not  because 
they  are  wanderers  in  the  skies,  but 
because  they  are  the  servants  of  a  sub 
lime  order.  There  are  no  fixed  and  per 
manent  social  conditions,  because  society 
is  slowly  moving  toward  a  nobler  order 
ing  of  its  duties  and  its  rights ;  there  are 
no  final  books,  because  the  human  spirit, 
of  which  the  greatest  books  are  but 
imperfect  expressions,  is  always  passing 
through  manifold  experiences  into  larger 
knowledge  of  itself  and  of  the  world 
about  it ;  there  are  no  final  forms  of  art 
because  truth  has  always  new  beauty  to 
reveal  and  beauty  new  truth  to  illustrate. 


My  Study  Fire 

Let  the  fire  on  the  new  hearth  sing  its 
lusty  song  of  the  summers  that  are  past ; 
its  music  has  no  note  of  forgetfulness ; 
memory  and  prophecy  are  the  burden 
of  its  song. 


286 


Chapter  XXXII 

An  Idyl  of  Wandering 

IN  these  spring  days  all  manner  of 
alluring  invitations  find  their  way 
into  my  study  and  by  the  suggestions 
which  they  bring  with  them  make  its 
walls  narrow  and  dingy  in  spite  of  the 
glow  which  pleasant  associations  have 
cast  upon  them.  When  I  sit  at  my 
writing-table  in  the  morning  and  care 
fully  arrange  the  unwritten  sheets  which 
are  to  receive  the  work  of  the  day,  a 
playful  breeze  comes  in  at  the  window 
and  wilfully  scatters  the  spotless  pages 
about  the  room  as  if  to  protest  against 
work  and  seclusion  in  these  radiant  days 
when  the  heavens  rain  sweet  influences 
and  the  earth  gives  back  its  bloom  and 
fragrance.  I  think  then  of  all  manner 
of  places  where  the  earliest  and  tenderest 
beauty  of  summer  abides ;  the  imagina- 
287 


My  Study  Fire 

tion  revolts  against  work  and,  like  a 
child  let  loose  from  city  squares,  runs 
through  meadows  white  with  daisies 
and  into  bosky  hollows  where  the  ferns 
breathe  out  a  delicious  coolness.  I 
cannot  resist  the  impulse  which  nature 
yearly  renews  in  this  golden  hour  of  her 
beauty,  and  so  I  sally  forth  to  such  re 
freshment  and  adventure  as  one  may 
look  for  in  the  hey-day  of  spring  time. 

Yesterday  I  waved  my  handkerchief 
with  the  throng  who  crowded  the  pier 
and  sent  their  huzzas  after  the  great 
steamer  swinging  slowly  into  the  stream, 
bound  for  that  old  world  of  history  and 
imagination  which  has  such  hold  upon 
the  most  American  of  us  all.  I  followed 
the  little  group  whom  my  affection  sepa 
rated  from  the  throng  on  the  deck  until 
I  could  distinguish  their  faces  no  more ; 
and  then,  when  sight  failed,  thought 
travelled  fast  upon  their  foaming  wake 
and  travels  with  them  still.  I  know 
what  days  of  calm  and  nights  of  splen 
dour,  when  the  stars  hang  luminous  over 
288 


An  Idyl  of  Wandering 

the  silent  world  of  waters,  will  be  theirs  ; 
I  know  with  what  eager  gaze  they  will 
scan  the  low  horizon  line  when  the  first 
indistinct  outlines  of  another  continent 
break  its  perfect  symmetry ;  I  hear  with 
them  the  first  confused  murmur  of 
that  rich  old-world  life ;  I  follow  them 
through  historic  street  to  historic  church 
and  palace ;  I  see  the  blossoming  hedges 
and  mark  the  low  ripple  of  quiet  rivers 
flowing  seaward,  the  murmur  of  whose 
movement  lends  its  music  to  so  much 
English  poetry  ;  I  catch  a  sudden  glimpse 
of  cloud-like  peaks  breaking  the  inacces 
sible  solitude  of  the  sky,  and  in  a  mo 
ment  the  whole  landscape  of  that  rich 
world  sweeps  into  sight  and  invites  me 
to  join  them  in  their  wanderings. 

This  season  stirs  one  knows  not  what 
ancient  instinct  still  in  the  very  blood  of 
our  race,  answering  the  first  voices  of  the 
birds  returning  from  their  long  journey, 
and  the  first  outburst  of  life  flowing  back 
in  the  flood  tide  of  advancing  summer. 
The  history  of  civilisation  is  an  Odyssey 
19  289 


My  Study  Fire 

of  wandering.  From  the  hour  when 
Abraham  gathered  his  flocks  and  crossed 
the  Euphrates,  and  those  first  Aryan  an 
cestors  of  ours  set  out  on  their  sublime 
emigration  westward,  to  this  day,  when 
the  axe  of  the  pioneer  rings  through  the 
California  pine  forests,  and  the  camp-fire 
of  the  explorer  rises  beside  the  Congo, 
men  have  never  ceased  to  travel  hither 
and  thither  driven  by  a  divine  impulse  to 
redeem  and  replenish  the  earth.  In  the 
long  course  of  centuries  the  tent  of  the 
Arab  is  as  permanent  as  the  rock-built 
temple,  and  looking  over  history  all  races 
become  nomadic.  No  race  accepts  its 
environment  as  permanent  and  final ; 
there  is  always  somewhere  beyond  the 
horizon  of  its  present  condition  an  un 
discovered  Atlantis,  an  untrodden  Isle 
of  the  Blessed,  where  life  will  beat  with 
stronger  pulse,  and  smite  into  the  obsta 
cles  -that  surround  it  the  impress  of  a 
higher  destiny.  As  the  thought  of  a 
great,  new  world  sent  Columbus  wander 
ing  from  court  to  court,  so  the  intuition 
290 


An  Idyl  of  Wandering 

of  some  larger  and  grander  life  impels 
men  continually  from  continent  to  con 
tinent  ;  not  restlessness,  but  aspiration, 
fills  the  sails  and  turns  the  prow  sea 
ward  forever  and  forever.  The  impulse 
which  would  not  suffer  Ulysses,  old  and 
travel-worn,  to  sit  at  ease  stirs  in  the 
blood  of  the  most  modern  of  us  all ;  our 
hearts  beat  to  the  music  of  his  last  ap 
peal,  spoken  through  one  of  the  greatest 
of  our  modern  poets  : 

'T  is  not  too  late  to  seek  a  newer  world. 
Push  off,  and,  sitting  well  in  order,  smite 
The  sounding  furrows  ;  for  my  purpose  holds 
To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  baths 
Of  all  the  western  stars,  until  I  die. 

Those  to  whom  the  impulse  to  wan 
der  comes  in  vain  are  not  without  their 
consolations  ;  the  most  adventurous  ex 
plorers  have  dared  and  won  for  them, 
the  most  accomplished  and  keen-eyed 
travellers  have  not  forgotten  them. 
When  these  fancies  invade  my  study 
<and  invite  to  journeys  I  cannot  take, 
291 


My  Study  Fire 

I  turn  to  the  well-filled  shelves  where 
my  books  of  travel  stand  shoulder  to 
shoulder  and  hold  out  a  world  which 
I  need  only  cross  the  room  to  possess. 
Sometimes  a  rose  penetrates  my  seclu 
sion,  and  brings  me  visions  of  that 
far  East  from  which  it  drew  the  first 
breath  of  its  fragrant  life.  Then  I  find 
myself  unconsciously  putting  out  a  hand 
for  the  well-worn  books  between  whose 
covers  Oriental  colour  and  romance  are 
hidden.  I  have  long  left  behind  the 
mood  in  which  I  read  Lamartine  with 
eager  zest,  but  there  are  days  when  I 
still  find  the  old  glamour  resting  on  the 
pages  of  the  "  Souvenirs  d' Orient,"  and 
my  imagination  kindles  again  under  the 
spell  of  that  fervid  style.  The  East 
stands  in  our  thought  of  to-day  for  the 
old  age  of  the  race ;  but  it  was  in  the 
East  that  life  began ;  and  that  buried 
childhood  comes  back  to  us  with  all  the 
splendour  of  the  earlier  imagination.  I 
hear  once  more  the  "sighing  sakia"  in 
Curtis's  "  Nile  Notes,"  or  draw  rein  on 
292 


An  Idyl  of  Wandering 

the  great  field  of  Esdraelon,  flashing 
with  the  white  blossoms  of  the  Syrian 
springtime ;  I  cross  the  desert  with 
"  Eothen,"  and  meet  the  dreaded  plague 
at  the  gates  of  Cairo. 

But  the  prince  of  travellers  is  the 
superb  Gautier,  whose  rich  physical 
temperament  stood  related  to  the  East 
ern  civilisation  so  vitally  that  it  almost 
made  him,  what  he  sometimes  claimed 
to  be,  a  veritable  Oriental.  The  colour 
and  glow  of  Eastern  life  were  in  his  mind 
before  he  sought  them  in  Algiers  and  at 
Constantinople;  sensuous,  full  of  deli 
cate  physical  perceptions  of  the  rich  and 
varied  forms  of  Oriental  living,  Gautier 
used  all  the  resources  of  his  marvellous 
style  to  reproduce  the  fading  splen 
dour  which  still  remains  among  the  older 
races.  But  Gautier,  with  his  leonine  face 
and  Eastern  temperament,  had  the  sen 
sitive  imagination  of  a  true  traveller ;  he 
reflected  his  environment  with  a  fidelity 
which  brought  out  not  only  its  reality 
but  its  ideal  also.  In  the  "Voyage  en 
293 


My  Study  Fire 

Russie  "  and  the  "  Voyage  en  Espagne," 
no  less  than  in  his  pictures  of  Algerian 
and  Turkish  life,  we  breathe  the  very 
atmosphere  which  surrounds  him,  and 
are  conscious  of  a  thousand  delicate 
gradations  of  colour  and  manner  which 
would  have  escaped  an  eye  less  keen, 
an  imagination  less  plastic. 

De  Amicis  is  less  brilliant,  less  fertile, 
less  subtly  and  marvellously  endowed 
with  mastery  of  the  resources  of  speech ; 
but  he  has  sharp  insight,  broad  sym 
pathies,  a  fine  faculty  of  reproducing 
local  colouring.  His  "Holland"  is  a 
classic  of  travel. 

From  those  marvellous  "  Voyages  " 
of  Richard  Hakluyt  to  the  charming 
books  into  which  Charles  Dudley  War 
ner  has  put  his  impressions  of  foreign 
lands  and  peoples,  the  literature  of  travel 
has  been  one  of  increasing  richness  and 
fascination ;  but  as  I  look  over  these 
goodly  volumes,  I  recognise  their  kin 
ship  with  the  graver  works  of  history 
that  stand  in  solemn  rows  not  far  dis- 
294 


An  Idyl  of  Wandering 

tant.  The  lighter  volumes  are  records 
of  personal  wanderings  ;  the  graver  ones 
are  records  of  those  mysterious  wander 
ings  of  races  in  which  history  began,  and 
which  it  will  always  continue  to  report. 
In  this  latest  century  we  have  seen  a 
transference  of  races  far  more  romantic 
and  impressive  than  that  wonderful 
"  Flight  of  a  Tartar  Tribe,"  whose  story 
De  Quincey  tells  with  such  dramatic 
skill.  The  ancient  instincts  still  sur 
vive  beneath  the  culture  of  civilisation, 
and  ever  and  anon  we  are  moved  into 
strange,  vagrant  moods  by  their  reap 
pearance  in  consciousness.  It  is  the 
shallower  part  of  life,  after  all,  that  finds 
expression.  Arts,  literatures,  civilisa 
tion,  are  the  few  drops  flung  into  the 
air  from  the  running  stream,  and  made 
iridescent  by  the  passing  flash  of  the 
sunlight;  the  vast  current  of  thought, 
emotion,  experience,  flows  on  in  dark 
ness  and  silence.  Like  the  tropical  tree, 
civilisation  must  support  each  expansion 
by  sending  down  a  new  trunk  to  that 


My  Study  Fire 

ancient  earth  which  cradled  our  infancy 
and  from  whom  we  can  never  be  long 
separated.  In  the  midst  of  our  highest 
refinements,  and  under  the  influence  of 
our  ripest  culture,  there  comes  to  each 
of  us  that  mood  which  Mr.  Lang  has 
so  admirably  expressed  in  his  noble 
sonnet  on  "The  Odyssey": 

As  one  that  for  a  weary  space  has  lain 

Lulled  by  the  song  of  Circe  and  her  wine 
In  gardens  near  the  pale  of  Proserpine, 
Where  that  JEzean.  isle  forgets  the  main, 
And  only  the  low  lutes  of  love  complain, 
And  only  shadows  of  wan  lovers  pine, 
As  such  an  one  were  glad  to  know  the  brine 
Salt  on  his  lips,  and  the  large  air  again  — 
So  gladly,  from  the  songs  of  modern  speech 
Men  turn,  and  see  the  stars,  and  feel  the  free 
Shrill  wind  beyond  the  close  of  heavy  flowers, 
And  through  the  music  of  the  languid  hours 
They  hear  like  ocean  on  a  western  beach 
The  surge  and  thunder  of  the  Odyssey. 


296 


Chapter  XXXIII 

The  Open  Window 

I  HAVE  noticed  that  at  the  close  of 
a  long  winter  the  opening  of  the 
windows  makes  my  books  look  faded 
and  dusty.  Yesterday,  with  the  bright 
firelight  playing  upon  them,  they  were 
fresh  and  even  brilliant ;  to-day,  with  the 
soft  blue  sky  shining  through  the  window, 
they  are  old  and  shabby.  This  singular 
transformation  has  taken  place  more  than 
once  in  my  experience,  and  as  in  each 
instance  the  spell  has  been  wrought  on 
the  same  books,  I  am  forced  to  believe 
that  the  change  is  in  me  and  not  in  my 
familiar  volumes.  In  winter  I  find  them 
opulent  in  life  and  warmth  ;  I  feel  in 
them  the  throb  of  the  world's  heart 
beat;  but  when  spring  comes  and  the 
warm  airs  are  full  of  invitation  to  the 
senses  and  the  imagination,  they  become 
297 


My  Study  Fire 

suddenly  meagre,  artificial,  and  common 
place.  They  shrink  from  the  strong 
sunlight,  and  in  the  affluent  splendour 
of  the  summer  they  are  the  pale  ghosts 
of  their  former  selves. 

The  world  of  books  is  at  best  a  world 
of  shadows  ;  one  turns  from  it  at  times 
to  drink  anew  and  with  unspeakable 
delight  at  the  inexhaustible  fountains 
of  life.  Commentaries  are  admirable  in 
their  place,  but  no  true  scholar  ever 
permits  them  to  stand  long  between  his 
thought  and  the  text ;  they  help  him  in 
obscure  passages,  they  light  up  dark 
and  difficult  sentences,  but  they  are 
only  aids  ;  the  text  itself  is  always  his 
supreme  and  final  object.  The  man 
who  goes  to  books  instead  of  life,  who 
gets  his  knowledge  of  humanity  out  of 
Shakespeare  and  of  nature  out  of  Words 
worth,  will  never  know  either  profoundly. 
The  Alps  are  more  majestic  than  the 
noblest  picture  of  them  which  artist  ever 
put  upon  canvas,  and  men  and  women 
in  the  multiform  relations  of  life  more 
298 


The  Open  Window 

wonderful  than  any  portraiture  by  the 
greatest  dramatist.  It  is  this  mistake 
of  taking  the  commentary  for  the  text 
which  makes  most  literary  men  the 
slaves  of  art  instead  of  the  masters  of 
life  and  its  lessons ;  which  fills  their 
work  with  musical  echoes  and  robs  it 
of  that  mighty  and  commanding  utter 
ance  which  truth  learned  at  first  hand 
always  finds  for  itself. 

The  library  is  at  once  a  storehouse  of 
treasures  and  a  prison  ;  its  value  depends 
entirely  upon  its  use.  If  one's  thought 
is  hourly  and  patiently  traversing  the 
highways  of  human  life,  if  one's  heart 
penetrates  with  deep  and  abiding  sym 
pathy  the  small  and  the  great  experiences 
of  men  and  women,  one  may  use  books 
and  find  nothing  but  light  and  power  in 
them  ;  they  will  discover  relations  which 
have  escaped  observation  ;  they  will  bring 
within  the  horizon  of  thought  vast  and 
fertile  tracts  through  which  one  has  never 
been  able  to  journey;  they  will  sug 
gest  answers  and  solutions  which  will  aid 
299 


My  Study  Fire 

immeasurably  in  the  comprehension  of 
the  great  mysterious  fact  of  life.  But 
if  one  goes  to  books  for  fundamental 
conceptions,  for  that  experience  which 
one  never  really  gets  unless  he  acquires 
it  at  first  hand,  for  those  large,  control 
ling  views  of  things  which  ought  to  be 
the  creation  of  one's  individual  struggle 
with  problems  and  difficulties  and  mys 
teries,  they  will  prove  inadequate  and 
misleading  teachers.  No  art  can  conceal 
or  preserve  that  which  has  been  borrowed 
from  another ;  such  second-hand  creation 
often  charms  by  its  skill  for  a  time,  but 
its  lack  of  vitality  sooner  or  later  makes 
it  appear  the  barren,  useless  thing  it  is. 
No  skill  will  save  the  picture  which  lacks 
the  touch  of  nature,  no  art  will  give  im 
mortality  to  the  book  in  which  the  pulse 
of  life  has  never  throbbed. 

To-day  the  generous  warmth  of  the 
sun  has  tempted  me  out  of  my  study 
and  beguiled  me  into  hours  of  aimless 
wandering.  I  have  seen  the  great  ex 
panse  of  water  between  the  arching  elms, 
300 


The  Open  Window 

and  have  noted,  with  a  kind  of  exulta 
tion,  that  the  trees  are  no  longer  leafless; 
the  exquisite  tracery  of  bare  twig  and 
branch  is  not  so  sharp  of  outline  as 
when  I  saw  it  a  week  ago  ;  a  delicate 
colour  suffuses  itself  over  all,  and  blurs 
the  edges  that  were  sharp  against  the 
sky.  A  robin  flashes  across  the  stone 
wall,  and  yonder  a  medley  of  notes, 
dissonant  with  anger,  betrays  the  recur 
rence  of  those  annual  quarrels  which 
settle  the  question  of  possession  in  more 
than  one  tree-top.  A  soft  mist  has 
touched  the  woods  at  the  water's  edge, 
and  woven  a  prophetic  charm  over  them; 
I  find  myself  already  weeks  in  advance 
of  the  season,  for  I  seem  to  see  even 
now  the  banners  of  summer  afloat  there, 
and  to  hear  the  inarticulate  murmur  of 
the  forest  weighty  with  the  secrets  of 
forgotten  centuries.  It  is  a  new  heaven 
which  bends  so  benignantly  over  me, 
and  a  new  earth  which  stirs  with  uncon 
scious  life  about  me.  A  tide  of  creative 
energy  surges  through  all  things,  and 
301 


My  Study  Fire 

reinspires  my  faith  in  the  coming  of  a 
clearer  and  yet  clearer  revelation  of  the 
divine  mystery.  In  each  recurring  spring 
some  sensitive  soul  has  stood  where  I 
stand,  and  felt  this  subtle  harmony  with 
the  new  world  bursting  into  leaf  and 
flower  about  him,  and,  nearer  akin  to 
nature  than  I,  has  overheard  some 
whisper  of  tree  to  tree,  or  bird  to  bird, 
or  star  to  star.  Straightway  a  new  line 
has  found  its  way  into  the  world's  an 
thology,  a  new  song  has  found  words 
for  itself  in  the  vocabulary  of  human 
speech,  and  finally,  a  new  book  gets  into 
my  study.  But,  at  the  best,  it  is  only 
a  faded  reflection  of  that  luminous  sky 
which  glows  from  this  latest  page,  only 
a  faint  and  confused  murmur  of  that 
forest  which  I  hear  under  the  spell  of 
this  latest  interpreter.  The  miracle  re 
mains  incommunicable;  no  book  will  ever 
explain  it  to  me;  it  must  be  wrought 
in  and  upon  me. 


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